Temple Oracle

24 May 2010
Queen Of Heaven

12 May 2010
Sacred Consort Rite

I had a request from a magical student on the West Coast to audio record the Sacred Consort Rite, and with special permission, the folks at Beltane granted me permission to audio record the guided visualization.

Having cleared this with those who attended, I wanted to make that audio available to those who attended, and those who had hoped to attend but were unable. There is a 1.5 page instruction sheet that goes with the audio file, and ask that if for some reason the file travels, these files travel together.

If you were someone who wanted these files, please get ahold of me at Lee@PassionAndSoul.com and I will send you to where the files are resting :)

Cheers, and thank you ALL again for those who were part of this working, and part of all of my amazing Beltane experiences.

***

Sacred Consort Rite: Connecting with your Divine Lover
A Journey with Lee Harrington

PLEASE read this informational sheet COMPLETELY before beginning.

On the other side of the veil your holy beloved waits. Join this circle and sensual guided meditation out of our mundane world and into the land of our spirit, where our companion awaits us. Some of us will connect to the flame at the heart of the universe, beating in union with our souls and loins. Others will open up to find a specific spirit, deity or being who has been hoping to court us as a one time liaison or as a partner along our life's journey. Some may encounter old ghosts from the past, whose presence might inform us what barriers we face to finding the love and desire we deserve. Or we may find a reflection of ourselves longing to embrace our own hedonistic worship and desire.

To begin this journey, clear two hours of time. Though the audio file is less than an hour long, you will want time to ground and center in advance, lay out your tools, and time afterwards to slowly come back to this plane at your own pace (or enjoy your body further after the session is done).

Find a space that is beautiful and sacred to you (your bedroom and a stereo, an open grove with privacy to enjoy yourself and your mp3 player), and lay out your tools. For some this will be sacred alter items, for others a towel to lay on, a pillow for under your head, and your favorite sex toys, lube, etc. If you are aided by a blindfold or similar tool, have that prepared as well.

If you prefer your sensual rituals sky-clad, disrobe and set your clothes to the side.

Calm, and breathe.

Cast your circle. In the case of the rite that this audio was recorded at, each ritualist had their own mattress and supplies, each circled around a central alter. The Guide cast the circle, calling North, East, South and West to watch over the working, before calling those above, below, without and within to bless the working as well.

Then, lay down, close your eyes, breathe… and begin the audio recording.

After the audio is complete, take as much time as you need to come back, but come back fully before going out again, no matter how intoxicating or challenging your experience was. Come back fully to your body, have something to drink and rehydrate yourself. Consider taking a long shower.

For some, this Journey may bring up a wide variety of emotions or feelings. No experience is “right” or “wrong.” Not everyone will have an epiphany or a mind blowing time, and that is just fine. For others, there might be need for processing- consider journaling, talking with a friendly councilor or therapist, or discussing what happened with an understanding friend or spiritual associate. Others might find help in “walking/dancing it out,” singing, talking out loud, or in general engaging their body to process through what they have experienced. Having these tools in place before you journey is HIGHLY encouraged- better to have them in place and not need them, than need them and not have them in place.

Either way, once you are back fully to your self, and before leaving the space, remember to close your circle. In the case of this recorded rite, we said farewell to those within, without, below and above, before thanking West, South, East and North for all their vigilance and assistance.

If you are curious about reading more on Sacred Consorts, energetic kink and sexuality, or other such matters, check out “Sacred Kink: The Eightfold Paths of BDSM and Beyond” by Lee Harrington, or visit PassionAndSoul.com

Yours in Passion and Soul,

Lee Harrington

10 March 2010
A Piece to Ponder...

> Self = "Work for yourself."
> Wisdom = "And see that Self is everywhere."
> Compassion = "Work for your Self."

Each layer we are, we come to understand we are...

4 March 2010
When The Dam Broke & Lord of Perversions

3 March 2010
Thoughts on Energy

> Negative energy: Doesn't make much sense to me, as energy just is. However,
> energy in the wrong place, too much, too little, blocked flow, energy that
> explodes out of a triggered complex, that is what I would think of as
> things to get cleaned of.

This appeared in my inbox today, in context of discussing "negative energy."

Thank you magical inbox.

I have used for years the language of "getting rid of negative energy" while simultaneously sitting with the truth in my core that there is "no such thing as bad energy"- that all energy is useful in some way, somewhere. Shit can become compost with which we grow a garden.

I recently made an intense decision. I few years ago I might have said I made a bad choice, but the reality is I made a decision that allowed me to move forward in my life carrying less hatred at circumstances, less suffering, than I might have otherwise. I was given a gift to go somewhere I may never go again, and in doing so glimpse the beauty of that gift for what it is. I am grateful for what I was given, even if today the choice I made then would not be the decision I would make today.

This does not make the decision I made a bad one. Just not the one I would make today.

The same is true of energy. There is energy that does not serve me, just as there are choices that do not serve me. Today. Today I might want to encourage more focus, another day I might want to encourage more opportunities, others more growth. Today I am not encouraging more variety of opportunities in my life. Really, I'm feeling a tad overwhelmed in the blessings the world has given me, but thank you. Today, this energy we call "variety of opportunities" can go elsewhere, to those who want it. That does not, in ANY way, make variety of opportunities bad, or bad for me, or negative... just not what serves me today, in my choices today. Today I invite in strength, stamina, clear vision, beauty, love, passion, focus, openness, heart, clarity of communication, firmness, comfort, and more.

This weekend I invited in adventure, love, secrecy, bliss, visions, connection, re-feuling, and perspective. I got them, in spades. By letting go of my pre-conceived notions around certain types of bliss, the bliss arrived at my door. By letting go of the energy it takes to hide some of my truths, they came out and were understood in new to me language. By letting go of my fear of abandonment, pain and betrayal, I was able to sit there for those in pain, and to reflect back into my life those qualities that serve me. Today.

This weekend I danced in piss bliss. I moaned at the top of my lungs. I cried in a circle of lovers and they did not stop or flee.

This weekend I held a friends hand. I felt tears on my lips. I saw clarity between breaths. My heart and throat breathed as one.

This weekend I laughed out loud. I kissed drag queens, old friends, and dear allies in my journey of life. I breathed in new hope. I fell in love with myself again, laying on my back after a ritual and realizing my gifts are such a blessing.

In the past I've been mad at myself for how hyper analytical I can be. Yesterday, my doctor beamed, saying what praise my psychiatrist had spoken of me. She (the psych) had apparently said I was a complex case, one of the more complex she had ever met, and was pleased I had developed all the systems I have to be the productive, passionate person I was. That she felt my intelligence was one of my greatest assets, and my ability to clearly articulate my challenges in life made me a pleasure to spend time with. Wow. Ok, it also came with a strong request to have me stop seeing my councilor and others unqualified for my case, but still, wow.

So I breathe in, and think, in the example of negative energy. My intelligence, my analysis skills, they are a gift. There can also be too much of a good thing. In a dark room I watch myself fade away.

I see stars, rows of stars that caress across her hips. She lays next to me, then my head in her lap. Somewhere across the sky two beautiful men make love at my feet, lips to lips to toes to hearts shining. I doubt in myself, whether laying in a starry field is the right choice. I should be part of the world, I debate. I should, I should, I...

We get nowhere with shoulds. Shoulds do not stick. I am comfortable here. I will dance with the stars until they are done. I will watch the visions unfold like scrolls from the walls as their moans erupt. I lay and I take it all in. I breathe in beauty. I breathe in hope. I breathe out joy, and soon am back- wrapped in their arms, and on my way out the door after revelations of friendship.

Elves and demons dancing together. I am lit up with memory.

Hiding so much of myself has created layers between me and the world. This does not mean I will pour forth my darkness out of a spout from my lips to flood your heart, listening world. It just means I don't hide. There is a difference. There is energy and power in secrets, but I can keep my truths and secrets alike without carrying a vault around me. I am vaulted, a high ceiling, and in my echoing chambers the words of your prayers scream to the heavens, a whisper is raised up high. You do not need to know all the truths of my high walls, the meanings of ancient tongues etched there, to appreciate it is a place of God.

24 February 2010
Add your sorrow to the coals...

Walk between the worlds, bravely down the candle road.
The light will lead you deep into your core.
Move into the center, add your sorrow to the coals
with incense rising, steady as a prayer.
Though the heart is heavy as the dance is burning down,
may you raise your eyes and never bow your head.
We are not alone.
-SJ Tucker, "Come to the Labrynth"

Friends are in pain. Ends of relationships, ends of lives, turnings of pages lost between the lines of a life so well planned. I breathe in, center, breathe out, send them love. Across the world and a prayer away I send my love to those living in situations of domestic violence tonight, to those who do not have enough food, for those huddled around fires in the cold.

23 February 2010
Repeating Circles

I find I am repeating circles again. Before time was like a spiral, stepping in and out of the timeline like a song, looking back fondly. But no, I've been here before, and it was not from stepping sideways. Ripples, bubbles in the timeline. Kisses on the stars and goat eyes staring back. Gold and reds painting a sky before me.

Its hard to breathe in the sky between skies, the time between times. I find myself foregoing breath, taking to the water instead. Gills open up, and I stare out beyond the killing room, beyond the patterns, and breathing in this beautiful thing called the dark.

You are whispers in the open sky
You are hope writ upon clay tablets
You are unbaked, unpreserved
You can rot and mold and die

I see him before me. Heavy hooves shake the plane, gold slitted eyes stare back. He smirks, and strides ahead through the mud.

There the offering. There the blood and pain. There my hope set aside and orders fall from another time, another circle, onto my tongue. I am an operator of a heavy machine. Somewhere the echo of an author who claims not to be a vessel... better to work, than to be minted.

I bend my back before him. He looks at the feast before him. Bugs. Bugs beneath his hoof.

Flies swarm and I can taste his cum in the air, her firm breasts standing erect against the ravages of time and denial.

I can flip between them, these two goat-legged ones. One stands over a cube, lady of the north, children of a thousand hungry mouths. Her tits are weaned dry, wrinkled and in pain. She glows green. He on the other hand is erect, timeless and timely. He is both genders, he lives in human heartbeats and breaths. He is here, now, on this earth. She waits in the cave, for those who seek her wisdom.

Pause. I feel a claw on my shoulder and know with a smile the rage of the open sand planes. The laughter rakes through me, and I know I still have work here. I rot and yet this meat still has work. So much work. Perfect work, beautiful Work, no matter where I might flee from it.

Somewhere Mama's message echoes back. Gender transition? Doesn't matter, get on with it, get it out of the way, get back to the Work. I open up my eyes and it is writ there upon my pelt. Job change? Doesn't matter, get on with it, get it out of the way, get back to the Work. Wherever I go the Work will be there, for me to do. I pull at the collar, go back to being comfortably owned after my tantrum.

I am the perfect beast for this labor.

In my imperfections I am beautifully carved for needs done, now, by those who use me. Mama leases me out, jobs need done, and I am not a Delorian as was proposed earlier today. I am not a rare show-car. I am a high powered work machine, even if my oil needs changed more often than most. I will bear the work, for it is what needs done.

It seems cartoonish. All the concerns. The gold paint on white. The tears and hallway screams. Its just another adjustment. Life is full of one more adjustments. And with each one, I fill another role. I twist and contort, I grow to match the wrinkles and gray I was meant for. I age into me, mature into the work, pick up another file and go. Energetic social worker, awe inspiring wonder maker, medicine man for a strange and curious tribe.

Between human and lover I find this thing called me, and he is a beauty. He can do this work.

Even in repeating circles, I pick up the thing left behind from last time, try again. Run the level one more time, this time with precision to notice what was not noticed before. Do it better. Do it again. Better does not mean the highest score. It is a prayer to do the Work as the work needs done. And sometimes it needs done in pain and fetid suffering. Sometimes we learn and acquire and grow and become able to understand by stepping sideways. Step sideways, peer back in.

A whole world becomes a flat surface, two dimensions become aware of three. I dream of four, of six, of a coiling serpent that laps up the heart of love and becomes manifest within me.

22 February 2010
Through the Mire

15 February 201
Lupercalia, when the Dam Broke.

I admit, I want to be a grumpy old man when it comes to the event I just attended called Lupercalia. I wanted, when I signed up to teach at a kink conference in Edmonton, Alberta to be able to say afterward "yes, they tried, but really... Lupercalia without Bull Pizzle flaggelation?" I wanted to be able to bitch about flying to north Canada in February.

Why? Because there is a part of me that wants to be a grumpy old man. Who believes so strongly in the power of storytelling that he is fueled by bitterness and snarkiness from time to time. I don't necessarily like that about myself, but I am aware that the grumpy old man is in there that says "back in my day" when someone will listen. He was so convinced he would get new stories for his "I lead such a tough life" file that I swear on certain bad days doesn't exist, that I layer up with false humility and play off as me being so enlightened...

He went back into his hole with a hungry belly, for this weekend blew me away.

The grumpy old man in my scull was so convinced he was right on Friday- a toga party, a BDSM 101 class that mentioned practices that were far from 101... but saturday opened wide and my world shifted. My entire world shifted.

This weekend I had delicious brain sex with Dylan, an amazingly spiritual and passionate man who I sat around and had deep connections on faith and wisdom and babylon 5. I opened up into the smile and laughter of his wife B whose hat I won in the silent auction. I got to lock lips with one of the event producers and feel like a small creature next to him.

I was blessed with Muppetry in the forms of Anika and the return of UU church magic, and with the amazing Tillie who flew in my ropes in a transcendental muppet chakra revelation scene and muppet encasement. Yes, that does make sense.

I got to flirt, flirt so good. And when parts of the flirtation left me feeling out of sorts, people putting their feet in their mouth and gnawing- instead of my oftentimes mental script of "and THIS is why we put everything on the table from scratch, so we don't get emotionally attached and then dropped when folks find out something they didn't know" I stopped and breathed. I realized it really had zero to do with m. And I was able to take my frustration to fuel some amazing zingers that attracted other hot men and hilarious women who were drawn to the guy who stood up for himself and was himself, not apologizing for who he happens to be.

Though, it pausing, I see how far I need to go on that front. Just as Dylan has the habit of playing down his teaching, I have the habit of putting all my flaws up front so folks can walk away early.... things to think on.

I was blessed with the beginners ind of one amazing man and one beautiful couple, finding themselves amongst our world. I melted into a puddle of heart goo at seeing BootPig go somewhere primal and touching. I had raw hot primal unchoreographed connections with Asher and Scott, co-punching, human energy conduit stuff, and letting my tongue linger as I was pulled in tight.... yes please.

But the piece that blew me away was Edge. Arli and Edge at Lupercalia- the tales that spin off my tongue like Darmok at Julad, at Tenagra.

There are certain scenes and people that shape us in our evolution of self.

We do scenes because they get us hard/wet/get us off.
We do scenes because it is fun or because we can.
And sometimes we do scenes because it is the work of the soul and we have no other choice than to heed that call.

I can not speak for what happened for either of them, but I can speak from the front row. I can speak from my head covered, shaking the words from my lips, prayers for our blessed dead.

Edge, in his Catharsis class, offered three routes. He could bottom, he could find someone with their own network (he had to fly a few hours later), or there could be no demo. the air was tense. And then it all came to pass.

Someone very dear to the Vancouver Women's community... and to SO many others, died unexpectedly in an airplane crash in November Her name was Catherine, and her hair hung like a silver veil around a face that told me the world of beauty I imagined... it was real. Catherine opened her home to me. Catherine inspired me. She still inspires me. I greive for my loss of a friend that was and was to be. I grieve for buds cut down. I greive... and before closed fists and screams of words I wanted to obliterate from his vile tongue that was so needed to lance the tonis from our hearts... I bore witness to greiving, I greived myself, and the tears rolled through the room.

Primal howls. I remember her. I remember her.

One of my challenges in having so much family, so much love, spread around the globe... is that I'm not there. I couldn't bring cookies and casserole and cry on shoulders. I the case of Catherine, of Flagg, of my Grandmother Louise... I did not find out until a week later, an afterthought- because I was not there. I sit in spaces alone and try to greive, because though folks other places can get my wounds, they never called Flagg a fucker, never saw Catherine's nervous laugh, never had my grandmother teach them how to blow bubbles in their soda or pierce their ears.

As a bard I carry the tales of my community on my tongue, and life immortal passes through the spinning of my words.

Arli and Edge, at Lupercalia. When the dam broke.

Another layer of healing took place as well, for me personally, getting to talk with Edge, truly for the first real time since his gun was in the back of my throat... but that is a tale for a different day.

For now I hold Lupercalia in my heart.
I sing the praises of Jim, Collin, and Dale. I sing the songs of Usha and Bonnie. I lift up the flat white spaces that require us to huddle together in hotel rooms and ball rooms. I toast to understanding wedding parties and easy bake ovens. I raise my voice and say that this work, this work is good. Blessed be to Faunus and Mars, to Juno, Lupercus, Lycaeus, Bacchus and Februus who watched over these workings.

For I was there... Alri and Edge, at Lupercalia. When the dam broke.

17 January 2010
Predator-Prey

13 January 2010
Birthed Of a Coiled Heart

10 January 2010
I remember

Today I miss the easy comfort of silences spent. I recount the names of memories passed and hold them up to the light as desert winters hold me.

I remember stairwells as David become golden eyes, storm light reflected and memories of fallen trees. Whiskers and whispers brush past in the night and we wonder what if, what if.

I remember the strange and easy silence of sitting with Kwanza, bridges passed and past, forgetting what happened a week before. Forgetting the pain and just being, in a strange way, friends.

I remember being held as I cried in a red dress in a dimly lit room at youth camp, as Toby rocked me and he stopped pushing and pulled me in instead.

I remember laughing selves as water nymphs and mud monsters made love, laying under grape bowers with Adam as he kissed hope into my world once more.

I remember doors slamming shut behind us and mirrors reflecting back as 6 inches away from the party Craig and I made noise of passionate and furtive need and desire.

I remember curling up on dingy sheets after walking back from a promise, giving up my fangs in exchange for wings on a concrete altar while Max held space for me and we fell asleep in deep peace.

I remember asking for Hunter's hand in marriage under a star-lit sky in Manly, his calm eyes and words offering me the universe, waves crashing in and telling myself I would be back here to swim topless.

I remember Dan and I at the hotel counter being informed that all that was left was the presidential suite at ICC. Of course we'll take it, and send up champagne, being romanced with pure bliss.

I remember. I remember more than these, but today, today I remember.

9 January 2010
Seven Hands Under The Sun

19 December 2009
Suited for insanity

I weigh it all out. I send out post it notes to the universe, and get back slices of cheese. Cheese I'm not supposed to eat and yet do anyway, thank you new nutritionist.

If I look at it all through the lens of a meltdown what does that make my past? Not my meltdown, not theirs either, but melting nonetheless.

Remind me again why I rewatch old flicks, flip through the pages of of last years memories, last decades memories. Recently I was accused of only always looking forward, lists to keep me afloat. Three more books to write, "just write faster". Lists of projects, of potential, of do do do lest I look backwards and realize I'm made a hash of it all so far.

Some days I dream of elegance. Of poetic tales where the hero floats away and is remembered for his last great work instead of his last great let down. Instead I make another list, pack another bag, create another unfinished product... because if there is work unfinished I have to stick around. Paint another canvas.

I said to someone recently that being in limbo is too hard for me, that I'm not wired for it. The truth is that I am painfully wired for it, wired so well that I fall away and the programming steps in. I flash through childhood stories of old men now, white underwear and shotguns on the front lawn. I flash through barbituates and oil canvases, broken looms and visiting days. I am too wired for the limbo known as the madness I find myself in. I breath in, too much work to do. Paint another canvas.

Dreams are painted on my flesh. Today in glitter and MAC, yesterday in flannel and denim. I coordinate possibilities in my laundry room, folding out potential.

This evening after coming back from thai food and a walk through possibilities (known also as the 5 for 20 sale at Blockbusters) to try to calm my truths and fictions, I came home and laid out supplies for ritual tomorrow. I stand before you Time, Fate, Chronos. I am the child of the twin brothers Kismet and Consequence. Two sets of wardrobe for the rite itself, unsure which I will want- long greys or stark whites. Chains will be heavy, but needed. Heavy collar packed, just in case, and the numbers for non-emergency police services. All hail the winter king. All raise their hands, rip out his heart, your time to die old man as we peek into the longest of nights.

Across the waves you kiss me then turn away.

Across the waves I kiss me then turn away.

Angst management, he calls it. I call it glitter and red eyeliner, fresh raspberries and black leather boots. I paint dreams and watch them dry, wondering if you can see my blue tree, see the flying bird. I flash and picture choices, memories of what may come, never come.

The joy of melodrama. I try to become solid again, become stable, become sane. I breathe in the work, ground into the banal. I count things. DVDs. Books. Ash burns (10). Tattoos (13). Scars. Laughter bottled. Times I've been let down. Times I talked and no one talked back. Gifts received for others. I become the vampire at the gate, mustard seeds cast out. I've been craving mustard since I got on T, craved spinach, craved lamb. Craved him. Craved me. Craved me.

Tomorrow I stand guardian at the gate. I stand the tower. I stand. And yet... between Kismet and Consequences, my own twin smiles back, and does not move. Madness stares back. I dream, I weigh, I get back cheese... wonder if I am suited for this insanity.

15 November 2009
Living In the Mythic

It was slang my former husband and I had... that we had a habit of living in the mythic. Others saw a tree stump- we saw a witches hair growing into tomorrow.

Today I sat in the iron vault, weighed in on all sides by progress. They locked me away, with the rest of the progress, lest my truths shake the world free. Afterwards the herses lined up for detailing... I am tired of my details, pages of numbers chiming out the days.

My stomach is heavy from swallowing the sun, pendulous as an ancient breast or designer handbag. Blessed be this coming dawn inside me.

The feast was laid out before me as the pages held me fast in ancient Britain, modern California. I am laid out between sour cream and Avalon, pollo and ink wells. The machinery waits, needing my sweat and fear, and instead I cherokee dream, remember his flesh under mine, over mine. He is a lifetime away, a plus sign away, and somewhere on the other side of tomorrow two towers cry.

I keep walking. Had to keep walking. Everywhere I turn is Tuscon, is bike messengers. Everywhere I turn is details, numbers, raising and falling with CDC notes and indications. I check my teeth again, check my memories again, check the numbers again and talk myself out of a glass of horchata.

On the train, 7 feet of lean sunglasses and plaid, the creature climbs off the train at Encanto to forage the city. I read another page, laugh at being in the desert. The desert, where holy men go crazy and crazy men become holy... what is the difference anyway. The sun beats down. A mosquito bite on a red tattoo, painful and invisible, itches its way to attention as I sit at the rivers edge and watch the shopping carts slide by.

Plans and signs fold, unfold, melt away. I kiss a lover from thousands of miles away, kiss my tears away for thousands of miles. Two Jims mix themselves up on your tongue and my past. Pare down, pick it up, turn another page... its all speeding up to wait. Hurry up and wait.

Forever in a magazine, forever in another pill, forever on a magi's tongue.

I love, I live, I dance in the Mythic.

20 October 2009
An Essay that did not get written

In writing an essay I was asked to do on "an insightful piece on sex, spirituality with kink and queer/genderqueer dynamics" I started to do this, and decided it was too "whoa is me"- the new one, FAR more empowering. BUT, I liked the language, so wanted to save/post it somewhere...

God or Goddess? Man or Woman? How the hell should I know anymore? I’m standing in front of the mirror. My chest is flat and furry, my beard dashing, and my cunt is hidden behind a bush that would make furry girl porn producer Rodney Moore go mad with lust. I laugh and think on the sacred third sex, the ergi, the different… hermes-aphrodite’s child with round breasts and hard cock… and I am not what I see in even those stories.

7 October 2009
Breathing through it all...

Two days ago I shaved my beard. Or as I had been thinking of it in the past month, my tranny safety blanket.

Yesterday I had my labret (1 cm below lower lip) and left tragus (that flap on the center inside of ear) pierced. When they heal, they will be replaced with gold. My labret is a reminder each time I look in the mirror of my work as an oracle, and the power of my voice and all I share on the world and the individuals I will touch every day. My tragus is an amplification, a tool to let me hear all the more the power I have, the strength of my journey... signal clarity mixed with hearing true the power I have.

I am getting constantly "she"d since shaving the beard and cutting my hair short. I also miss stroking my beard. I have looked myself in the face, literally, bald and bare. I love who I am, but I like myself bearded better. It will be coming back. Today I am stubbled, and good with that.

Last weekend I learned more in 3 days about teaching and touching lives than I have in the last few years. I am doing another experiment intensive in Salt Lake City in November, different this time, and I will learn more. Together I will take those lessons and make my own intensives, and I know this is where I need to go as an educator.

Today I held back tears as someone I adore told me they loved me and yet, and yet, I know so strongly that the world between us will never be the same again, sleeping clothed in the same bed.

Today I panicked about my journey of health, about my journey in wealth.

I dreamed up new ideas, embraced fears.

A few days ago Amy and I turned over new leaves, added "unpacking" to our list of needs... unpacking our lives and lessons on occasion so we can see what each of us is carrying, so we know we are carrying forward clear and loved.

I realized how profoundly comforted I was by she and I having less drama than I have in other relationships in my world.

Gold echos, gods, gold glows.

I had a friend call me on the fact that I was describing some of the deities I work for as dark and scary, using outsider language of who they are rather than who I know and experience them to be. I had not realized until then how deeply it had hit me that someone I respect had asked me at Dark Odyssey about my spiritual path, and said at the end that she and I were on different sides- she Santeria, I, Voodooo. Her white, mine not as much. In her language, not mine. I had really internalized that voice, for a lot of reasons. I felt judged, and was carrying that judgment.

I am so blessed by those I am collared to, those I serve, those I who have chosen to touch my life. I am proud of the Work I do for them, who they are, and the Work I do in this world. And as I type this, tears trace their way down. Their way out.

It has been a hard, beautiful, amazing, powerful, touching week. I have woken up, I keep waking up, and keep evaluating who I am and what I am doing. And yet I am so tired, so very tired.

But I am also oh so amazed by it all.

I have knitted pie, stars inside stars, and locks with a myriad of keys.

I have a mother who knows all my health and work and faith stuff and still stands there... even bought me a wreath to commemorate me keeping on living and kicking ass.

In just over a month I will be turning 30. I am looking forward to leaving my Saturn return and embracing the fullness of my journey. I open up my arms, keep an ear tuned in, and embrace the fullness of my journey.

And am really grateful for rice milk mochas at the moment ;)

13 August 2009
Mystery Traditions and Cermonial Magic... the Leather Metaphor

My temple brother is in the midst of formalizing the charter for his backpatch club in Texas. He sent me a copy to pour over, get my opinions. I mentioned that I have been working in the past few years towards eventually forming a leather/spirituality group of my own. He proposed the idea of combining our efforts.

Nope, we are far too different in approach. Reading his, I am reminded of the military, cycle clubs, and ceremonial magic. Funny, that's his background :) Formal by-laws and charters, specific codes for indoctrination, dress codes, detailing of colors and more. It's good stuff. But when I sent him what I had in mind, we realized we are coming from different pages, even if the idea of having goals of self-evolution and spirit are part of both of our ideas.

He said:

In my case I spell it out because doing so will avoid confusion later... negate loopholes... and allow for a more clear understanding of the founding ideals several generations down the line. A member in Dallas must trust that a member in Phoenix had to prove themselves just as fully as they did. And the "colors" will mean something everywhere... members won't dare sully that meaning... because it would piss on the efforts they and every other member put in to earn the right to wear those colors. Codifying details removes doubt that inevitably tries to creep in, or worse protects against intentional corruption. Making the trials center around the tangible allows for all to witness regardless of their spiritual leanings and abilities.

Have I mentioned I love my temple family? Temple of Atonement represent. I digress.

I realized that is not what I want. In having each member swear oaths and do the work for a year and a day, supported by a mentor, the goal is not to have tangibility. I could care less if, when a member commits to becoming an acknowledged authority in a skill in their area as one of their three oaths, or that they will get a raise at work, whether they actually are acknowledged as such or get the raise. I care about their journey. I care about setting high standards where the pledge will push themselves. Where a crucible will be created wherein, through the pressure and challenge, transformation will occur.

I have set 3 goals, based on the 3 areas of my envisioned group. Kink. Spirit. Life. I set them at the beginning of the year. The kink one is being difficult but productive and amazing and on a tangibility side, I will do fully. The Spirit one, well, in many ways I am being a slacker, but the journey of it has led me to new friends, profound personal evolution, and a lot of amazing stuff. My life oath is being the most difficult, with new life twists and turns, but so far it is paying off... and hell yeah have I grown from it.

So I am chewing on the differences between kink and leather groups, looking from a faith lens.

Are you attending a mega-church?
A small parish church or temple?
A ceremonial group with initiations and secrets?
A fringe cult no one has heard of?
Studying with a Guru?
Seeking out your own path?

Hm.

6 August 2009
Missing a Dead Man

I last saw him in December.

The deal we had brokered the year before had been simple. His ink on my flesh, and 24 hours with places traded and we would be good. I could have the contract, take it back to the realm of the living.

A year earlier, when I had thrown my ink already and claimed what it turned out could not be claimed then, He had first come into me. Gagged with duct tape, bound and unable to escape, I watched as He stepped into my skin. He fit, because he had fit before he had died. The fucker had been there before. I saw him in my body as I stood aside as he took off his/my boots and set them aside, perfectly neat. I saw his shape through my shape and recognized him as the black man who had been in my chorus of voices in the dark since I was young. He looked over his shoulder at me, and smiled. That smile I loved. Still love.

The smile that breaks hearts, and fucks you over. And you still love him.

I watched as he talked to him bound in the chair, heard parts of it muffled as I slipped sideways... and then they were gone.

I was gone.

It is gray in purgatory. No, not gray, more like someone has taken the saturation filter on photoshop and dialed the world down to -40. This was once red lips, this was once a brown jacket, these were once green eyes staring up out of the ground. This was a pair of lovers locked together, and now they are tangled masses unaware that they are stuck between. Unable to ascend, unable to hear, unable to reincarnate... to busy with what is going on, too torn, too full of pain to go in any direction.

I walked. Each time I tried to rest, it became to easy to rest. I had his debts on my shoulders, his burdens, his suffering. Mine had been left above, with my body, with myself. I was shade, was in his space. I hated with a venemous rage knowing that he was stuck here because he kept saying he wouldn't die before he made good, it's ok to do the sorts of magic he did, it would be ok. Fucker. Now- now I look back and I know where he still is and just feel this sadness, pity, resignation for him.

Hours passed to more hours, no clocks, no watches, no time, no space... just on and on and bodies and faces in sand and wandering shades and void. Hours became as if days, and so tired. Oh gods so tired. To just lay down, but each time I would start to sit, let alone lay down, I would start to get sucked down into the bodies/ground/flesh under my feet. Sucked down. Just give up. No point anyway. You're here forever anyway, right? What do you think will happen? Why worry. Why try. Just give in. Just. Oh gods, to sleep, to just...

But no one was listening from there.

As suddenly as I was in, I was out, shade to color and seeing Him in me again. He half shrugged at me, then bowed his head, smirked, and walked through me and out. Back in flesh I snapped to, began working the duct tape off his face. There are very few ways to stop all the eyebrow hair from coming out. Duct tape blindfold, I was so angry.

But after three more of these, none of me having to completely replace him under as the three of us figured out ways to purposefully allow him to enter the space without having to make me or someone else living hold his space... we came to a deal.

24 hours of being out, trading spaces, over a year, and I would have what was mine. And he would have no rights to ride me again. He wanted 24 hours in a row... I thought better of that offer, thanks.

For the most part, the dead seem to want simple things. Send a letter. Eat chocolate almond ice cream. Watch a sunset. Go cruising. Feel the sun and wind.

We spent more time than the 24 hours together, because over the course of the year I couldn't take it there any more. He got more time in exchange for a half-half situation... neither of us would leave, both of us would share my body. I just couldn't do it any more.

In late December our last hour was made good on.

Today, staring at the ink, I miss him. I miss that asshole. I feel really sorry for him. I am grateful I have what is mine. The deal was sound. But he fit in me, and though that hole has been recrafted to not be empty any more, I remember. I remember the man as he lived. As he laughed and loved. As he held and joked. And I remember him dead, eating ice cream in the Maui sun.

12 July 2009
In Praise of My Affair

22 June 2009
Watching them rake

In the parking lot field, workers dump heaps of dirt. Sweaty men from around the world rake and push, endeavoring to relevel the ground. Endeavor to erase the rain and 500 pagans in the mud and sunshine. Prepare the land for the influx of perverts to come.

I love Ramblewood. Trees and a lake full of angry snapping turtles. Buffalo bones stay on the hill, and paths to places divine dot the land. The alchemical fire circle has been taken down. The fire spinners have left. Merchants row is forgotten save a few patches of dead grass.

In its place heaps of sex wedges fill the Dungeon/Tin can, and a huge vehicle full of metal dungeon gear has just arrived. Where children frollicked last week, sluts and hos will get fucked and flogged on the same hills.

Breathe in.

Life moves and transforms around us.

Breathe out.

Another chapter begins.

I am so deeply touched by how main ritual went on Saturday night. Raven had asked me to fill the roll of the Monk, and it is a large piece of my chapter at the moment... I knew I had to say yes. I cut up linen squares, brought hemp twine, and a stack of sharpie pens all in my leather cow bag... I even had Del shave my head into a Tonsure. It's fuzz-bald now.

Clad in monk robes and bare footed I headed to the Dining hall where we began processing. Deep breaths between the Corn King and I. We were a weird bunch- the Rebel, the Artist, Robin Hood, the Mad Scientist, the Insane Woman, the Healer, Sacrificial King, the Sexual Deviant, the Trickster and the Monk... as Uranus and Neptune danced between the signs. As our group split off, the Monks went outside and I did a 3-soul alignment breathing exercise with everyone in a circle then had each person go off and design their prayer flag. Hooray for the miracle of the multiplying sharpies.

I thought we had 25 minutes. 10-15 minutes in, we started hearing yells and screams that the Monks were being too slow and they needed us now. I started to panic and hurry up, until someone amongst the monks said well yes, we are the monks, right? I then said "I thought we had 40 years on a mountain top." We all slowed down, breathed together, went back to our work as the world yelled at us. Calm. Cool. Focused. Solid.

The Monks who headed to the fire broke out into chants. It was good. The chants continued as the wheel of time and prayer burned.

Dream the change, be the dream.

I also had an intense sweat lodge experience on Friday, and am so grateful for its timing. In addition fire spinning, conversations amazing and disheartening, love and beauty, strength and a slice of sadness, walks alone and walks with friends.

I love Ramblewood. It is a magical place.

13 March 2009
Objectification, Animism, and for the love of Things

Watch Married To The Eiffel Tower [Part 1]  |  View More Free Videos Online at Veoh.com

It comes again. The discussion that keeps mulling around in my head, that has come up twice in under 24 hours. The issue of animism, the belief that things have souls, and where it intersects with humans who are things, and things that we have relationships with.

The video above is about a few women who are considered OS- Object Sexuals. They have not only sexual relationships with objects, but emotional ones as well, and do not have relationships with humans. The documentary does not judge, except insomuch as by providing opinions of people around them as well as from them. Erika used to have a relationship with Lance, her compound bow, and the relationship propelled them together to become world champions. But she and Lance's relationship cooled, and she fell in love with the Eifel Tower, the grande Dame of Paris... and got married to her. The tattoo is beautiful.

OS is about love, attraction, and is not object paraphilia- a sexual attraction to an object. Most fetishists I know collect their objects, but do not have connections with the spirit of those objects.

This is where animism comes in to play in my mind.

I have met the spirit of a specific coke can, have had meaningful discussions with a beach, have falling in love for a night with the wind off Manly in Australia, who bore witness to a ritual I can not forget. I have a pet rock I have owned since I was 6 years old, and ze and I have bathed together, been intimate, been best friends... and its memory is long for when I unwrap it from its fur ze sleeps in... ze smiles and remembers me, and curls up again at my side... still a child in many ways.

I remember being affirmed when I read Tom Robbins' "Skinny Legs and All"- the adventures of the rag tag crew Can o' Beans, Dirty Sock, Spoon, Painted Stick and Conch Shell melted me. Told me I wasn't the only one who knew, who could hear them.

If objects have souls, why would we throw them away? Do we throw away the other things with souls in our life? I would argue yes, most of us do. Just because something is ensouled it does not mean has value to us. Thus the ability to kill- it has a soul, but its death does not matter to us in that moment... we would slaughter an ox, smash a rock, why not a human?

Last night this came up as Brent and I discussed Alan Turing, Principia Mathmatica and a variety of other books that influenced him in his path of hybric chaos magic, ceremonialism, and mathematics. He encourages me to read "Gödel, Escher, Bach: an Eternal Golden Braid" by Hofstader, to plunge in deeper. It comes up as we discuss the idea of the Chinese Room-
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chinese_room

Does the human know chinese? Does the books? Does the room? Do they all as a system? If this applies to a soul, does the skin have a soul? The brain? The wiring between it all? The juice that flows on high? If so, when the human goes to lunch, does the room dream?

We spoke of the word "impersonate". To enfuel with a personhood. We impersonate when we do drag, we become a gendered person that is not our base norm. And between use we come to the conclusion that no mind is to imstatuate ourselves- if the being of statuehood is no better or worse that being of personhood, in becoming as the statue (or wall, or air, or ground, or...) we imstatuate ourselves, we go no mind, we come to understand a different level of this thing called soul. It is no more or less empowering than to make the statue seem human.

I live on one vibration, one level, one viewpoint of the world. I can shift. I can become mouse, run on ground, smell food, run, dust. I can become eagle, fly in air, see big picture, zoom in, hunt, know. I thus can choose, if I work with shapeshifting again, to become air, to become statue, to become inanimate as it is referred to by humans... but thingness has value, has a perspective. Eifel Tower, she's seen people come and go, knows the past for what it is, knows the rain, the joy, the pain, the heart of the city. Lava rock, fresh and knew, remembers being thrown from iron core that is also our blood. What does Moon remember, Ocean, Beat up hat?

In moving out of personhood, I shift what matters. Drama is different. Slices of time change. My will and its effect shift.

Some objects are louder than others. There are cars that just *will not* work that way. Stuffed animals that whisper. Mountains that are heavy with wisdom. And there are silent ones as well, the paper ready to be writ upon by no judgment but your own.

So it is with human objects. I meet people, in body at least, who are chairs, ottomans, clay (pliable until fired), rocks, pushy stuffed animals. That long to be used for *how they are useful*. Using a fork as a scredriver may function, but it is not as elegant as using it to savor the sauteed mushrooms you have created. And we have a choice, when we strip away personhood down to objecthood (with down being neither negative or positive, simply an arbitrary otherness of being) we as viewers of object have a choice on how to interact. Do we kick the violin when it will not make music, or learn how to play it? Do we use the pan to cook, or to play the drums? Do we try to wriggle our size 18 ass into that pair of jeans, or do we give those jeans to a home who can wear them without destroying them?

When classical feminism speaks of objectification, it assumes the worst in humans in their relationship with objects. I argue that if we approach with a slice of animistic belief, with a knowledge that the planet has a viewpoint, our concept of what it means to objectify will shift.

Me- good.
Me + computer (writing from Ace, my boy with a bad hip who still does a great job)- able to share my thoughts with the world.

He makes me more than I am alone.

And I thank him for it.

8 January 2009
These things do not blaspheme...

The following was my intro on the group "Loosing my Religion/Religious Play" on FetLife. I thought folks might enjoy ;)

Thank you for the invite Masque.

I find it fascinating that the idea of blasphemy is at the forefront of so many perspectives here so far here on the group (from other thread). To me the idea of defiling the gods, or God, or the divine, or Universal Will or whatnot (insert your filter here) actually has very little to do with my fetishism around faith, religion, and spiritual mysticism.

Blasphemy states disrespect.
I do not intend my acts by their very nature to disrespect, but instead to use the tools of the hive mind to place those who interact with me into the roles they have subconsciously absorbed in life. As Father Harrington I have had strangers open up to me and share their deepest secrets on street corners- permission given to be ungaurded. As shaman, sexualized, I become s/he who is conduit to the divine, an opportunity for people to walk between worlds and labels in life. As guru, whether "dark" or "light" in that role, I give people an opportunity to believe in something bigger, to let go, to not just submit but surrender to the Will of another (and/or the Divine). As a temple whore my body becomes temple, becomes sacred space for the possibilities of healing to take place amidst the bliss and carnage of desire.

My history? My family was mixed faith (Goddess Worshiping Lutheran Crystal Healer and Born-again Catholic Activist) and thus I was encouraged instead to go to every type of faith gathering I could and make up my own mind. I attended temple, synagogue, mosque, churches of many types. I went to Wiccan Sabbats and Satanic Black Masses. I became active in ceremonial magic and drank in hymns at Notre Dame.

And everywhere I went I realized I touched God/Universe/Divine/Love. In Cappadocia long dead cities still smelt of incense and I prayed there. At Kildare I left my wishes tied to Brigid's sacred wells. From Glastonbury I hammered out my feet on the ground at a rave and kissed the Goddess on the lips in the pouring rain.

I have an addiction for the divine, and that includes the power of the objects that have left their mark on those seeking the faces of that power no matter what you call it. I love the smell of frankincense swinging, the cling of prayer shawls to my naked flesh, the cut of a good looking man in full vestments or a raving oracle screaming in tattered veils. I can feel the echoes of god's love and lust for the world in the pages of old family bibles and become aroused.

Arouse. To awaken from slumber. To be driven mad with desire.

Give me nuns and anchorites married to the Lord. Give me trannsexual hookers dancing for fallen Sufi Mystics. Give me phalluses that tower into the sky. Give me rosaries whose beads have become steeped in unreleased needs waiting for permission to live fully. Give me trappings and true passions, because in each I see desire, love, God.

These things do not blaspheme in my eyes.

15 October 2008
Receiving Puja

Receiving Puja

Its not often in my life that I have an opportunity to view myself in full power, grace and vulnerability, and yet I have been told I have had more of these moments than others do. I am told of people who walk through life blind. I meet souls who have never thought of their own power, grace or vulnerability, except perhaps in how others view them with these labels. I however, do. I wonder how I can pull down my walls and open up. I stay up at nights wondering if I carry myself in a way that puts my in the world I love in a way that allows me to dance with rather than steam roll over life and love. I pour myself a drink and debate whether I a doing enough. Do I live up to what I am meant to do.

But then the gift came.

Its not that simple. I can't say I was given a gift because I deserved it, because it was meant to be. Two masses drawn to one another as magnets in this huge world. So huge. The world is not getting smaller, she said. It's just as big as it's always been. We however are drawn to others who are as big as we are, as ready as we are. And I was ready.

Saturday was the first time I'd received Puja, and the third time I'd invoked my god self. Oh, I've received hoochie puja before, taken from when HelasGythia said that she danced with fire and spoke with it, while others just did hoochie mama fire spinning. I raised my hand and confessed that I was a hoochie mama fire spinner. Oh, I've been to a few gatherings of tantric folks that they called pujas. But those were tainted. A lust in the air tasting like sweat and desperation. A need that cried out... if I show you how much the world loves you, will you show me? No, this taints it. This is not Puja.

Puja is an offering. It is bowing, kissing, holding heart space. It is you are beautiful and you are perfect mixed in with the divinity of being acknowledged in what is before you. It is not I love you, but you are love. You are loveable is too simple. It is more that this. It is not the passing statement, but taking of your entire being to show the being before you how amazing they are. And it is one directional.

I tried to say Thank You afterwards, and she scooped up the words and handed them back to me nestled between her palms. Please do not taint this, she pleaded with her eyes, and I took the words back.

She told me a tale afterwards of offering Puja to a tree. My brain skipped a beat, words of T. Thorn Coyle and Orion Foxwood buzzing in my brain. The souls of trees. The worthiness of these amazing spirits. Full circle in under a year, as if time were somehow so simple. Louise, the woman in the cottage, lives past and future, smiles and laughs as I pick up this thread again lifetimes later.

8 months ago I first drew down my God Self. PantheaCon is one of those events that even though it takes place in a hotel, the brain lets that fact fade because the magic is so strong. The space becomes more than hotel, more than people, more than rituals- it becomes its own. And here I was surrounded by 200 or more folk in a ballroom, watching Thorn laugh and explain and place theory on the table then walk us into practice. Eyes shut, hands open, and breathe in. Pull in power and love. Breathe in and hold, and as I breathe out fill presence in the space and connect to my beingness there. Her words echo- “there is nothing excluded from the work of self possession.”

Breathe in again, deep breath and hold, and as I breathe out I fill the beingness of my animal soul, my lower cauldron, my lower chakras. Breathe in, fill and hold, and as I breathe out I fill myself and bring awareness to my middle chakras, my intellectual self, the trunk of my world tree and the self that analyzes it all. Finally on the fourth breath, aware of all before, space, animal and intellectual selves, I breathe in, hold, and breathe into my god self.

I breathed up and filled up my being, and as the I AM descended, and I knew it as the I AM, the truth of me, my greater purpose, my god self. Dharma is one of her faces. Purpose is one of his hands. Beingness is writ upon zir chest and Authenticity echoes in every pore. I breathed in I AM, and became the conduit for my eternal self to speak, to know, and in turn, empower me to do as I will. I. I AM.

It amazed me afterwards, and before we actually turned theory into practice, how many times I have let other beings ride me and use my form, when I had not ridden myself. A thousand reasons erupt from my tongue- second hand flesh, not my chosen journey, so many to serve, so little time... all excuses that fell away as I knew. Knew in my being. Knew my being.

Since that February evening, full of rose poems and Feri delight, I had only drawn myself down one other time- locked in a circle with a heavy metal circle locked around my neck and in the solace of solitude I spent forever in an hour with my God Self. I have tried other times in between and not truly succeeded. I have called I AM on the phone energetically speaking, and had me even visit during office hours... but the attempts at house calls have not worked. Oh, I certainly told myself it worked, or bathed in the high of the trying, but it was energetic wanking: calming, self loving, but not necessarily helpful for being fruitful and making life change. Fair, I could go on about the idea of masturbation as a tool for life and world change, but for now we'll work with a standing metaphor.

She and I had been playing hard. Ropes and hands and hearts flying in a generic hotel room lit with the light of us. Switching at its best with both as Top, both as bottom, both all there. But those walls, right. Dive deep but come up for air my fear kept saying. They can't handle it... an excuse for you can't handle it.

But my gills itched and as we walked into the bathroom she caught my eye.
I would like to offer Puja to you...
Have you ever had Puja?

A wave of words that never crossed my lips. Oh, fuck, hoochie puja... oh no, she means it. I'm not worthy! Why am I not worthy? What do I need to do to deserve this? How can someone see me as perfect. She's just being nice. Its not a big deal. This is a huge fucking deal. If divinity is tapping into universal love like being plugged into the source, is she using me to reach that source? Am I using her? Am I already plugged in? A I allowed to? Will I be allowed to stay? Can I do this? What if she starts and finds me unworthy once she looks? What if I find myself unworthy. What if I cry. Run. Breathe. BREATHE.

So I breathed. I nodded yes, and when she began, I breathed.

As she touched my feet and gave thanks to all I am, I let myself truly go there again. Go back into the truth of my being and open wide. Open to being there with every pore. Open to being primal with every pore. Open to being intellectual with every pore. And once I was there, truly there, I opened up wide and felt I AM descend.

I laughed. The damn burst and I laughed. I see her face and know my path. I feel his hand pulsing inside mine and can act on my purpose. I feel my chest rise and fall filled with the core of my beingness and my skin sings with the authenticity of all I AM. I AM. I.

I am worthy.
I am deserving.
I am beautiful.
I am perfect in this breath.
I am loved.
I am going the right way.
I am capable of all of my greatness.
I am magnificent.
I am.
I AM.

I laughed. And laughed. And glowed.

I breathed in my grace, power and vulnerability... and was not afraid.

And saw myself.

Its not often in my life that I have an opportunity to view myself fully, and yet I have been told I have had more of these moments than others do. I am told of people who walk through life blind. But I am not they. In each day I see and meditate on all I AM, my universal will, my power line to God, my God Self, the Cauldron of my Beingness, my Gaurdian Angel, my Higher Self, my Truth... I continue to have more opportunities to be blessed.

And I am blessed. Thank you world, thank you self, for showing me I was ready for this.

7 September 2008
Mastery, UPG, HOm, Leather

I was thinking today about the Master/slave conference I went to 5 weeks ago or so. Wow, its been a while, and I've been whirlwind since then, but I was thinking of it today as I went to Myspace and found a pic on my board from Master DVNT of Chicago. I've known DVNT in passing through ShibariCon for about 3 or 4 years now. He is deeply inspirational to me in his devotion to his faith (he is Buddhist), and the way he carries himself in the world. I almost cried when he gave me a piece of rope he made himself. I had no toys on me and he, his girl, ChrisM, his wife, and a hot male pro dom from NY were trying to convince me to go to the play party- but I had a conversation that NEEDED to happen with someone dear to me, even if it ended up hurting to have happen. But this simple gift- I thought he was just letting me see his work, I tried to give it back, he said no, it is for you, thank you for all you have shared with me... wow.

That weekend was a bit like a homecoming. I had chose to go last minute, pack a weekend small bag and just GO... and suddenly there I was surrounded by friends old and new, and peers and teachers I respect greatly. Master Gallad and slave kelly were some of the first I saw as I walked in the door, who I met at SW Leather this year and keep on bonding with more and more over the year. Wow. Suddenly I was surrounded by friends, at every turn. Watching Major's face twist into the most beautiful smile as I introduced myself to him followed by a big bear hug. Getting this delicious smirk from Master Z (Dallas). Hanging out with the other Mr. Harrington of SF (will be a tad confusing if I move there).

I sat in a few Masters only panels, and looking around, breathing in their collected wisdom, I realized what felt strange.
I felt very very similar to how I did when I got off the boat in Manly.
I felt... home.

Thats intense to say.

I'm sitting here now, naked in my room, staring up at my Masters cap.

Home.
I almost typed Hm.
Add some Om...
HOm.

Bells jingle overhead, bear scull above, a compass.
Thats what a Masters cap is to me really.
A compass.
Just like my pelt.

Its funny, my spiritual path has been a challenging one for me because I keep wanting to go back to school, get ordained, so all these things I *already am* because I want to have someone else say "well done kid, here's your members pin"- and yet when I walk into a circle of my peers as a shaman and occassionally as a priest as well, I am just that- a peer.

I've wanted to be gifted leather so badly. I wanted the process, the ordeal, the pat on the back- and instead stuff keeps getting handed to me with no pomp, no circumstance. My boys cap was already in my posession as a loan and naked in bed when on the verge of tears I was told to keep it, I know you deserve it. I wanted pomp,circumstance, formality... don't get me wrong, I EARNED it, and the gloves too. I earned it in sweat and tears. I earned it memories and lessons. I earned it. But it wasn't what I wanted.

I've had people in service to me, submission to me, in leather and kink, on and off for almost 15 years now. I wanted someone to do what I read of in books, what I heard from friends in their tales. And now I'm being offered a back patch for a group I don't feel I can wear their colors with pride... and with no ceremony- GAH!

But then I walked in that room, and it was like walking in at Keepers Crossing in many way. Peer recognition. I was meant to be there.

And not just that, but this feeling of air on my face and sand in my toes- it was right.

I have a love-hate relationship with UPG. Unverified Personal Gnosis. Its a term that has been actively been bantered abut parts of the spirit worker community for a while. It refers to (in a nutshell) things that a human learns about the nature of the divine, or a diety, or spirit, or some other cosmic force, through their own experience- but its not in any anthropological texts that anyone knows of, or there is no other way of "verifying" that knowledge when it first comes in. Many people's UPG has turned into VPG (Verified Personal Gnosis) when either a handful of other folks say "yup, I got that info too," or a rare book is found that says yup, people in ancient siberia wore bells on their belts too.

A LOT of the work I do is UPG and VPG. It is not textbook, it is hard to cite exact pages and numbers. Its hard to back up. But I know it is true. And the VPG side tells me others know it to be true as well.

My path towards Mastery feels a lot like UPG. I look at books about Mastery and slavery and go "but that is not the face of Mastery I am!" It makes me wonder if Mastery (like God) is something I can interface with. I look at people following a specific path of Mastery, and go wow, if thats Mastery, its not for me. Just like looking at certain followers of Christ and saying wow, if thats what loving Christ is about, its not for me.

But a thousand faces of Christianity, with its own infighting all on a route towards loving God... why can't Mastery have a thousand faces, all on a route towards finding Core?

Raven Kaldera said it before and I will say it again- Mastery is like mastering a fine instrument. If I beat my Stratavarius, while it play sweeter music?

Mastery is about Mastery of the self, with the slave, slut, submissive, property, pet, or other human as a reflection or projection towards our own journey. It is a kata, a daily practice, a DISCIPLINE. This is my VPG around the issue :).

So I'm looking at this cap, 3 feet above my head, that is sitting on top of a one of a kind ceramic bowl used for intentional magical working. It sits, and waits, because Mastery is my journey, and only I can grab the ring.

Crap. That means only I can grab the ring. To quote Master Archer of Atlanta, I must re-earn the cap every time I put it on. I must do my leather proud. Well fuck, thats a lot of work. Ok breathe, absorb, love... that means love me.

Do I get to scream yet?

So I close my eyes and look back around the 2 Masters only discussions I was part of... one by Master Burt (who warms me with every smile) and one by Master Z (whose words deeply changed the way I look at relationship in St.Louis, who I love but do not know well)... and I look at the faces of Mastery. I see young and old, male and female, straight and queer, firm and soft- all striving towards personal Mastery using the tools of erotic and relationship as a tool on that journey. I look around and see fellow adventurers, and more true, fellow disciples. I close my eyes and see saffron robes, see black habits, see head scarves, see tall hats and bald heads. I see prayer beads and dancing under the stars. I see a path to God.

Ok, so thats my vision. I had this breath of HOm, and then when the rest of the world came back as I stepped out of that sacred space, my 2-footed self wondered what that was all about. Then I walked into Master Skip Chasey.

I am blessed that I count Master Skip as one of my Teachers. Along with T.Thorne Coyle, Dennis Merrill, Jay Yernell, and Mary Condren. There are more, people who come and go from my life and leave messages- books that reach out through the sands of time, words that changed my life in the hearing, bright souls that transform me... but Master Skip like the others listed are returning reoccurring forces in my world. And Master Skip was there- hell, he was the keynote speech. And in his eyes and words this vision went from UPG to VPG- espeially as he taught "Priest in Black Leather."

This world of kink, this world of Leather, this world of Mastery and slavery... it is one of my disciplines on my path of enlightenment. Its not a path towards enlightenment, that infers that enlightenment is the final step. Its not. What you DO with enlightenment is what matters, as I brush with Nirvana and dance back to a hotel conference room and smile, breathe in the greatness around me and in me, and love.

29 July 2008
Journeying Raindeer

I stand on a plain, looking out over a herd of buffalo in the distance, thick across the plain, but far away. As I ride forward, I watch as the buffalo are actually Reindeer, and the plain is cold, but thick with them. I start to count them but am distracted by something passing over the moon, a raven as large as the moon from where I am seated on my horse.

As the sky goes black I blink my eyes and I am sitting at a communal fireside, with a shaman whirling about in circles, or some other holy man of some sort, as all are watching him as he spins and whirls around. He is dancing in a trance, with a long skirt made of pages from fashion magazines like Vogue, a heavy coat/cloak made of more pages, and a tight hat with tendrils that fall down from it (reminded me of a mask of a thousand faces that my friend Raven made), but instead of keys or bells or whatnot at the end of each tendril, it is all beauty supplies- tweezers, lipstick, eyeshadow, eyelash curlers, etc.

He spins as everyone watches, knowing he has something important he will find in his trance. He spins as I watch, and he begins tearing off pages from the outfit, page at a time, in a trance fueled with a holy rage. He spins and tears off pages, and I begin to see some of his, or now I realize maybe her, flesh underneath.

As he/she spins, a raven lands on their head, and begins to peck out an eye, eating it as the shaman still spins, but does not notice the bird- tearing away the pages seems to matter more.

I turn away from the fire and look into the village. A woman who was about your build but with darker hair, pinned up, and heavier lips and a slightly rounder face smiles at me, a raven on her shoulder, as she walks away through a beaded/draperie curtain, that seems to have some sort of playing cards it is also made out of. I am drawn to follow, but she somehow though a single smile tell me no, it is a place of women's mysteries, behind the curtain.

The raven flies off her shoulder as she goes through the curtain, grabs a card, and drops it on the ground. I look down at it, and it is a card that has a single large cup/chalice in the center, 3 smaller above and 3 smaller below, with a huge moon above and another below the smaller cups. The chalices are white/silver, the moons white/silver, and the card background is blue with a yellow border.

I smell spices in the air, exotic cooking. Eyes smirk out from behind the curtain to the land of women's rites, and I smell herbs in the air.

I blink again and I am back on the plain.
The woman, or maybe its you, I can't tell... she's sitting side saddle on a single reindeer on the plain. She then lets out a slight laugh, once she looks around (to see if no one is there?) and throws her leg over the reindeer, riding now strong and proud and normal (not having to keep up appearances). She was wearing a heavy cloak, and takes it off, and I see that the inside of the heavy cloak was all made of fashion magazines. She laughs, shakes her head, and her hair falls down. She is wearing clothes that cover her and keep her warm, but are of her choosing (no idea how I know that), but are also culturally right (again, no idea). She is carrying a fan of raven feathers and a cup, like the ones from the cards. She rides away and leaves the cloak of fashion magazines, which start to dissolve into the dirt.

I blink, and am back in my tent.

22 July 2008
Poetry For Hera - Spread Wide

Spread Wide

I close my eyes to the beat
Beneath me his wings are spread
Spread beneath me
Spread wide
And we are off
Wind
Breeze
My hair blowing
As his wings are spread beneath me

Her arms are wide
Heavy with burdens
A wry smile knowing
Knowing me
She hands me one of her burdens
Return this for me
And get yourself something nice
Followed up with another one of her knowing smiles
And a wicked comment about the sun

She leaves me flustered at her charm
Brown black curls pinned back
Prada sunglasses
Her proud nose
The wry smile knowing me so well

I close my eyes to the beat
Carrying the burden on spread wings
And wind my way back
To flying 10,000 feet above the west

1 June 2008
Tonights Work

He asked me to carry his name to the spirits, ask them his questions.

I headed to my home, those of my staff not expecting me home so soon, but asking to see how I could help. I showed them the note in my hand, and they understood, let me go.

I went out to the forest, and met a spirit I knew well there. We climbed. We spoke at length with no words about caves and darkness, about light and fear, about climbing higher than needed, about how higher was not where I needed to climb for this answer- and the sky fell away.

Blackness and a sea of stars. Simplicity, her starry voice echoes.
Compassion, her starry voice echoes, a breast emerging in the sea, a smile, a cosmic smirk in the black.
If he can not have compassion for his needs, how can he expect to carry others?
She holds me in her arms, and the letter floats away on fingertips as she holds up the mirror, her mirror of reflection, of love, of self love. She takes the letter and places it between her lips, and drinks it down with a moan, a sigh, a smirk. She looks back at her mirror, and he, the petitioner, is smiling back at her laughing and shaking his head. He looks older than I know him. He holds out his hand through the mirror and shakes it laughing, like a student does his professor once he himself is now a professor. His skin is translucent, starry, and he fades laughing at the inside joke between the two of them of shared experience.

She holds me, then lets me float off again, blackness with white stars, blinding brilliance, beauty, black, and a sea embrace me.

I open my eyes.

8 May 2008
He Dances

He dances
wings wide
spinning in the circles
of my footsteps
dancing wide
spinning me

I breathe in
dance as he opens me
wide in the circles
of his wings
spinning footsteps
of my dance

My spine is heavy back here on earth
my spine is heavy as I settle back into my flesh
and out of his
fiery claws no longer beneath me
blue reaching out to her starry belly

20 April 2008
Drum Dust

You'll need a rock
the size of a grapefruit
he says, and a drum

I wander past
forest of fallen pick-ups
find myself two stones

One the size of a satsuma
smooth creamy
one ashen, dark, heavy
nature's own brick

Look here
two rocks and a drum
beating as one

Cream and ash
pound in time
with hide and wood

looking down
to find ash
and playa
dust of a journey
gone before

laughter
stone breaker
drum dust
in my boots

15 April 2008
Of Faith and Collars

My brain seems to be gearing up for this weekends Core Shamanism courses. The Classical Shamans on the reading list may be rolling their eyes, but I am a firm believer that I have yet to find a single educational tool I have not gained something from.

Almost 2 years ago, I had my bear paws done. May 21st, 2006. The same day Hunter took on my ink. Two acts of dedication cast into flesh by one artist, Matto at Skin Deep in Sydney.

They are simple enough- miniature versions of black bear paws (yes, black bears have 5 claws, I have the pelt of one hanging 3 feet above my head right now to look at daily), positioned in suck as way as if Mama were grabbing the back of my head in case she needed to slam it into a wall for not listening. Thus the comment on the icon. I had originally planned on having life size prints on my back, on each side above my protection against the evil eye ink across my shoulders, but I was informed they had to be visible. At all times. So hands, wrists, neck, or head. And the reality is, I am not trampled beneath Her.

So I took my ink. I have sworn to Her by ink. by pelt. by hook. by blood. by tears. by snot. by sweat. I have not sworn to Her by cum because that is not our relationship. I enjoy familial roles, but the reality is that I will not have sex with my mother- or my Mama.

When Hunter wore my collar locked at all times, I wore a collar of my own in return- a key dangling on heavy chain. Only fair, as I tend to wear a lot of keys. More astrally than physically. Again, its part of what I DO. When the exchange came, and I took on my few-month tenure as his Boy, a step I needed to take in my core to be able to walk into manhood with pride and guidance, we exchanged lock and key. When that lock had to come off, contract almost up and life transformations being acknowledged, the collar was removed.

A month later, I was at Keeper's Crossing, a spirit workers gathering I attend, and in the middle of the woods, flesh morphed to bears flesh, feeling the air as I pissed, Mama talked to me. That is a misnomer. Mama Bear does not talk to me. There is no english. It is more of a clear download of information as she pours herself through my spine and growls her way into my soul. She pushes me open or rips me wide, depending on the need. But she talked in this way, wordless. She said that I was wild one. That I was Hers. That I was already collared, and I seemed to forget this. That my place was road walker, that even if I had a home, I needed to keep one paw on the pulse of the road.

A few days later I told one of my partners of my revelations and twists that weekend. Some in my opinion much bigger than the collar one. But when I told him that Mama reminded me I was already collared, and why was I so addicted to that act of collar anyway, that that wasn't mine to have any more... he broke down crying. Why does She hate me? he responded. I was baffled, and in pain. I had shared such depth with him, and this was the response. That it was personal against him. And worse, the underlying idea he asked of why won't you go to bat for me. As if I had a choice.

Now, there are choices. Always. But what does begging get me? I can always fight for something, have choices, but there are often reasons for what She asks of me- and honestly, it has all been worth it. But it is hard to explain how many spoons it takes to argue for something in my case. If you don't know the Spoon Theory, its a very useful one concerning energy stores in the human form.

It had nothing to do with him. But it was a very illuminating piece around us as a relationship, and it made other things that came to pass less of a surprise.

Mama took away my ability to wear a collar. To be collared. But, being the guy I am, I had to test it out anyway.

BodyBound weekend, Rose and I were playing and he asked if he could put a "play" posture collar on me. I told him Mama had taken away my collars, but he asked again. I said yes, because it got my cock hard. I'm honest, what can I say.

Red and black, heavy and still, and as the buckle clicked, I went away. I went away. Not sub space. Not floating. I as a conscious human being can not be present when a collar is around my neck. When he finally took it off of me, I had no memory of what had come to pass.

No collars.

In fact, it seems, no jewelery for more than a day at a time. If that. A month and a half ago my last daily jewelery came off- the firs time in 18 years I did not have metal somewhere on my body. No piercings, no necklaces, no rings, no collars. No metal, no leather. Nothing. Nude. For the first time in 18 years. I can wear a watch, a necklace, a belt, body piercings, etc- but if I wear them for more than a day in a row, I start feeling like they are ripping through my flesh and are horrible pain. I wonder sometimes if she will take away my non-work stuff... but so far I am still able to wear my lock for scenes (an 8g lock in my nose) but it drops me into receptive space FAST and if my wards are not solid, I'm easy to have be Ridden.

The exception to the collar rule it seems is specifically WORK related. That has happened only once, and it broke me apart and built me back up from the center.

But I am finding it fascinating.

I am collared. And I am blessed.

7 March 2008
Thursday Vision of Fall Horns

I'm really good with feedback on the woo filter- I appreciated the one offlist link to more Melek-Taus stuff. This guy was just kind of wacky. My other note of annoyance- getting used to obsidian sphere gazing work, I've started to start zoning off and out on almost anything round black and shiny- thus the "gazing frog" jokes that are evolving.

I laid down on last Thursday night. 1am. I had to be up at 4am. But I couldn't sleep, so I went to take a long bath, cleansing inside and out. I felt the water wash over me, into me, through me, out of me, let myself sink into the waves. I let go, and opened my gills.

Back out of the waves I tried to lay down again, but was called to erotic play instead. Ah, the universal joke- to have universal coitus interuptus. Of sorts. Not entirely true. But I found myself in a very, painful, position as my body froze mid anal masturbation and was no longer able to move. Or more accurately post orgasm right when you want to pull the dick out of your ass, and afterwards it starts hurting, then worse, then...

He appeared.
I think it was He.

It looked like a stag, but its body was made of dead leaves fallen from trees in oranges, browns and deep reds. Its horns were made of bare tree branches. It stared me down, stared through me.

Ouch.
Oh, you've done worse.
Yeah, but can we not, this sucks.
Oh, you've done worse.

It got wore.

Can we stop this now?
Oh, you've done worse.

Suddenly I flashed back full body to the moment my nipple fell out in my hand in the shower, and I froze in the water, then began to scream. As I started to freak out, the picture froze, and I wooshed back to my body and the pain in my literal ass.

Just a reminder, you're not actually there. You're here.
Thanks. (But I was thinking thanks asshole)

Suddenly I flash back to going into the shower that morning. Winter was in the other room. I stripped out of my clothes and checked the water temperature. I unwrapped my bandages, and stepped into the water. I began to wash, bent over to grab the soap, and out my left nipple bundle fell into my hand. I stood up in the water and froze, then began to scream. I wooshed back into my body and the now seemingly on fire anal sphincter.

Just a reminder, you're not actually there. You're here.
Thanks. (But I was thinking thanks asshole)

We did it again.
Again.
Again.

Until somewhere between times 5 and 10, I lost track, it went like this instead...

I flash back to going into the shower that morning. Winter was in the other room. I stripped out of my clothes and checked the water temperature. I unwrapped my bandages, and stepped into the water. I began to wash, bent over to grab the soap, and out my left nipple bundle fell into my hand. I stood up in the water and froze, then breathed deeply and stepped out of the shower. I set the severed bundle on a piece of clean gauze, then call out to Winter- "can you call the doctor? My nipple just fell out."

I come back to my body and and finally I have my arms back, and I slide the dildo out of my tender ass. Thank fucking gods.

Oh, you've done worse.

Fuck, I start to scream, as I'm whipped back to my burning flesh. I'm in my cottage, a different life time past, one I've been to before, and my shirt is on fire. I'm screaming.

Just a reminder, you're not actually there. You're here. (back to my tender body and tears down my face).
Thanks. (meaning it this time)

The story starts earlier this time. I am walking into my cottage, carrying a bundle of something under my arm. Its a warm evening. I am smiling slightly, its beautiful, and will be beautiful tonight. I walk into my cottage and start setting things down on my table and start rummaging around for something to eat. I hear a noise at my door that had closed behind me. I go to check on the noise, but the door won't budge. I shake the door hard, but it won't budge. I start to panic when I smell the thatch burning. I look out of my one window and see him, the man I knew too well, with a look of great sadness wandering away. I know what comes next...

I jump. Suddenly I'm somewhere vaguely civil war era america guessing by the uniforms. This is NOT my timeline, I know that much. It's his. The man who I knew too well. He's the brother of the woman in front of me, who I'm having an argument with her husband I can't understand.

I hear the rustle of leaves behind me and the stag of fall leaves is behind me.

I didn't know you could do that.
Neither did I.
You weren't ready to actually deal with that one were you?
No, apparently not.

I snap back to the burning thatch smell, step back to Winter asking what is wrong, step back to my body aching and tender.

I come back with an hour until I have to leave for my flight.

Interesting approach to Recapitulation/Soul Retrieval I suppose, but god damn it, can't I just have normal sleep any more?

28 February 2008
The Blue Child

27 February 2008
Peacock Dreaming

So, last night was.

I spent much of yesterday physically pulling myself, with the help of the service slut and Rose, out of the muck of my soul. It was nasty. By late night, I realized that I needed to spend some serious time in the center of *I*, to get some truths under my belt about how to move forward concerning two oaths I have sworn, and received in turn.

For those who don't know, I have this ridiculously heavy ass collar that was forged for me by a spirit worker who I respect greatly. Its function- to keep the manifested spirit inside a body present and unable to harm anything in the physical realm. Not the body its manifesting inside, not anyone outside it either. Plus, to not be able to move from the circle where it was locked in place. This was originally forged to deal with one very specific being, and it served its purpose for that specific working to a T. It is an ensouled item, and thus has its own awareness which is amusing to live in a house with sometimes. Nothing like a different ensouled item that lives in my house, but that is not my tale to tell. Yes, this collar is in my will.

So, for the first time ever, I wore the collar myself last night. I had known since I received it that it would allow me to do what I did last night (force me to stay self-possessed until I took it off), and it was interesting to realize that for the first time last night, first time in years, I had no jewellery of any sort on as soon as the collar came off. None. I am still devoid of any jewellery. Everything I was wearing is now on my bedside table, and will stay there at least until tomorrow.

I needed to be bare. I need to be bare. I need to go into conversations today with an open heart and an open mind around oaths, and that includes removing items tied to oaths that are not inked into my flesh. And yes, oaths owed to a dead man- 2 months down, 10 to go. Oaths sworn to Bear very much in tact.

Back to me, rather than the universal *I*, I laid down to sleep. My sleep schedule had gone nocturnal, I had not eaten beyond a nibble a day, and had stopped doing much of anything. This stopped last night, breaking fast with tasty green beans and horseradish garlic mashed potatoes. I laid down to sleep at 1am, a shock as I'd only been up since 4pm.

Right hand masturbation is mine. Pleasure, simple, yum. I can not cum for fun with my left hand. Its reserved for magical working, which surprises me not one bit as I have this big ass tattoo on my left palm of a pentacle, 2 points towards the fingers, that faded physically as the ink rejected, but stayed elsewise. As I lay there, in that space between sleepfulness and waking, it came to me.

Peacock.
More accurately, Melek Ta'us, The Peacock Angel.

I've met other deities before, but this was, I'm not sure how to describe.

Have no idea what I am talking about?
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Melek_Taus
http://www.scribd.com/doc/2080602/Yezidi-Black-Book

Also, a peek into this Feri stuff that keeps popping up in my universe over the past 2 years that is yanking harder:
http://www.feritradition.org/
(where the personification of god as youth, blue man, wears peacock feathers in his hair as connection to Melek Ta'us)

His claws dug into the heart of the planet, spinning gold, spinning iron. The tips of his eye-feathers dusted the heavens with a smile, for I could feel the heavens smiling and opening up their thighs. Its eyes were lit with blue flame behind black iridescence, cold, but inviting. He called me forward to masturbate upon him, and in time I did, after weighing the world out with the eyes on me, the waves on me, letting my gills breathe deep and know this was good.

When I stood afterwards before him, I was as tall as he was, and my claws dug into the heart of the planet, spinning gold, spinning iron. The tips of my fingers as I stretched dusted the heaven with a smile, and I could see the heavens laugh at this. But my eyes were my own, ocean gray, and I kissed Melek Ta'us on his cheek/side of his beak and left him to his ways. He bowed his head then stood taller then before, and I shrank back to my own size as I made my way back to my flesh that had been playing out this dance on its own terms, left hand to my twat, while I was gone but was still present.

My brandings are many symbols. They are 7 waves each, each time my body being pulled down, each time my hands always above the waves to pull me back up. Never unable to come up for air, but knowing that I can breathe underwater. Every 7 years I have had a breakdown, and last year was no exception, and in its magical numbering it is a reminder of this. Every 7 years we replace our cells, and mine reset. It is lined up with the 6th brand on my right arm, my 13 strikes towards manhood. Each wave has an eye in its crest, and the imagery was pulled from the artwork of Argus, the giant who slept as Io fled from Hera's hold, whose thousand eyes were removed from him for having slept and put upon the peacock. To be always vigilant. Vigilance, awareness, and signal clarity. Hands above the waves, let my body see what I can not see, grant me 14 more eyes, let me know what needs to be known so that my work might be done.

Thus I am not surprised, 6 weeks later, to have peacocks at my door.

But I can feel that blue flame still, not inside, but just... near. And I think on this, and keep my eyes open.

23 February 2008
Deep funk leads to retrospection on Work

Someone dear to me in an email recently said that the universe makes me do all sorts of "crazy woo woo" shit, but that I love doing that stuff.

That is not true.

How do I explain to those who are not god/spirit bothered that having to wake up at 3 am, leave your body, and go do work that seems bloody well pointless all night long is taxing, annoying, and horrible. How do I explain that having to give away money to strangers sucks on my finances? That I have to take jobs I want to throw back in the face of organizers who deeply disrespect me, but that this stupid fucking universal good light goes off and tells me, no, I have to be there to change one specific life. That I have to get up and leave dinner sometimes to wander in a daze for miles to have to literally move one brick to a different pile of bricks then chat with a cat to have them help me break into a building, leave it unlocked, then go tell some homeless guys where the space is so that they can go crash there... and then come back to dinner?

I do not love doing this stuff.
Yes, at times it is nice to have proof that I am changing the world.
But 50% of the time, when the duty light goes off, I do NOT get proof of anything. I feel like a raving lunatic, a madman, a fool. I find myself angry and pissed off, and then I let it go because its part of being collared to Her.

And I love Her.
I love Mama Bear.
I am deeply devoted to her, and its curious, I can have verging on sexual/sensual relationships with other deities and spirits- but not her. Never. I've tried going there a few times, with other bear workers... but its not right. My own inner aspect of Bear as a totem and shapeshifting work is one thing, but Her- no. Its strange- I've even had a lover who was also a Bear shaman, and we can't do magic of any sort between us if there is a charge of sexuality in the air that involves Her.

She's my mother, and like my biological mother, I just won't go there- but I would drop everything if she were in need. For those who know the "no, thats my MUUUUTHER" story, feel free to laugh.

I do this work because it is important. Because I must.
Because I must.

Like Orion Foxwood so eloquently reminded me last weekend, "The Spirit World is NOT democratic. .. your spiritual work is not volunteer."

How else do I explain it without seeming mad?
This is my path.
I walk it.
Because I must.

I find glimpses of joy, and deeper truths than I had thought possible, but I did not choose this. Those who believe deeply in the law of attraction, who believe we attract all we have in our lives, even the worst of our pain, might disagree. But you believe deeply in a spiritual self journey setting, and I know in my core that this time around, I have work to do. I can control the hours I work sometimes, but this work- I can't quit.

Or perhaps I am mad, its always a possibility.

11 October 2007
Listening to our Masturbations

I'm trying to listen to my masturbations again.

For me masturbation can be a lot of things:
mechanical release
sexual connection with a partner
a way to relax
connection with self
feels good
meditation
sensory experience
trance
opening up to the divine to receive messages
magical tool for putting desires out to the universe (or other magical stuff)
checking in with self
and more...

But I was recently attending Spirit of the Islands, an amazing event in Hawaii, and was able to do tech work for Femcar's Huminiation and Objectification class. She has a brain I drool over, love, adore. I am often torn up about other aspects of this amazing complex creature, but her brain astounds me. In a spoken word piece that was read by someone else while I projected images of her being objectified and humiliated, she spoke of opening up to the universe using her cunt. When the spoken word piece ended and she just spoke to all the folks gathered, her voice was so strong and powerful, resonating a deep truth- that the universe speaks to her through her masturbations.

She does things she does not understand she says.
She does things because she must.
And the things she does change lives.

People may not agree with what she does, but they do make you think.

So since that trip to Hawai'i, a trip I know has changed my life forever because of some of the amazing spiritual teachings I came it touch with plus finding my financial guru... I've had this concept in the back of my scull.

Masturbating today it hit me hard. When I stop censoring my fantasies and let them just exist, I learn so much about myself and my place in the world. What we do in our fantasy lives does not have to reflect what we do outside, but it can inspire. We can be what we never could be. We can do what we never could do. We can remember what may never be ours again.

We can touch on what we need. We can feed our dreams. We can put out a cry to the universe towards the longing of our soul.

Or I can just wank.

It all works out.

But it is something to consider... what do our Masturbations show us?
Where will they take us next?
What lives will we change?

18 September 2007
Dark Odyssey 2007- rambles from my flight to SF

My first few days of Dark Odyssey were stressful. Not because of the event, or hell, the people who as always light me up- but because of the stress surrounding my NYC housing situation. Finally after being unable to reach my sublet, Spencer finally tried calling them for me after ordering me to let him take care of it- and he did just that. The guy had stopped picking up 503 area code calls, but did pick up for a Canadian number- sigh… but the stress had led to it showing on my face, which led to a friend of mine, BBJim, asking what was up. I told him, and before I even finished the tale he’d offered to let me stay at his place in New Jersey. I cancelled the stomach-stressing sublet, and literally within an hour my spirit was lighter and a mood that had been punctuated by extreme feelings of loneliness was transformed into being present again.

Loneliness? Yeah, its painfully lonely to be at any event where you’re sleeping alone surrounded by cuddling couples, sitting by yourself contemplating life when your neighbors are fucking. Its strange, there are times when these things really don’t bother me- I get my voyeuristic needs met (being an ethical psy-vamp), or I engage in fabulous discussions, humor and theoretical dialogue… but the first 2 days of Dark Odyssey this year were hard on me. I was actually getting concerned about my obsessive melancholy surrounding Hunter and Spencer… and with Coral in Ireland for vacation, having all of my partners out of the country was wearing hard on me. My hand glued to my phone, hoping, needing, was really worrying me.

It hasn’t all left. Actually, its being strange to have a partner in my life (Spencer) who I am being so obsessive about. I don’t do this, not this need, literally down to the bone need to hear a lovers voice every day. It scares me a bit, but I’ve chosen (with Hunter’s help) to not let it worry me. It scares me because it is not my standard modus operandi. I am not usually that guy. I am free spirited, and yes, I love hearing from my partners, but unless I know something hard has been happening in their voice, I don’t stress even after 2 days or in some cases a week or more without hearing from them. I have been finding myself chomping at the bit to hear his voice after only 24 hours, sometimes less, and it is a strange and unfamiliar sensation. To miss his skin after only a week. Not that immediate missing, like I have after had a delirious series of days with a lover, their sweat still etched upon my brow. Not that need to feel them curled up behind me one night later. No, that desire to wake eye to eye and smile. Part of me wonders if NRE (New relationship energy) is parsing different with hormones in my system. Other parts of me debate other possibilities.

But, in fairness and joy, the stress did lead to me getting to have some great bonding time with Del that lasted well past when the stress lifted. She and I became the two old guys from the Muppets, sitting in our lounge chairs outside our cabins commenting at the world as it went by. While others at camp were learning to find their G-spots and spin fire, I learned at her side how to balance a gummi bear on my nose then toss it up and catch it in my mouth.

Friday night, with the stress lifted, I transformed. How people approached me changed dramatically, as I became me again. Became me for the first time around a lot of these folks. Old acquaintances looked at me with a sense of awe as I heard over and over again that I looked happy, calm, centered. I am. Flirtation finally found my ears, and damn it was good. And my mojo came back, and together Del, Whittney and I led a cathartic release ritual where my screams at the attendees was apparently audible by others down at the Pavillion half a camp away. This year the rituals were very small, quiet, but potent. I was happy to have touched lives on a more intimate level.

Touched lives. Fuck, that thought is so good to me. As I froze under the flames I felt the pain of past fears hit me hard, but wrapped up in plastic and bear hugs afterwards his voice echoed- too late, you’ve already changed lives, left your mark, mattered in this world. Too late. Thank the gods.

Of my 4 classes, I was happiest with the results of my fiber magic class and my rituals for D/s class. Mind you, I got sunburned while teaching fiber magic, because I chose not to teach in the cramped and dark make out room, and decided instead to convene under the big blue sky. But I was so happy with the turnout and the interest in a storytelling, history, mythlore and application of magic class at an event like Dark Odyssey. Del and I kept joking that it was hard to be doing all intellectual and spiritual classes (I did NO hands on classes this year), when people could be learning how to have better orgasms or throw a punch. Or as she phrased it “Why would someone want to discuss theory in a dark room when they could be sticking fingers in each others pussies?” But they did, and wow, it was good. My did my modern re-rendition of the tale of Grandmother Spider weaving the heavens, and it was so delicious. And at rituals for D/s, an attendee was directly NOT listening to what I was saying, and I hit my groove and got to compare his comment to attending DragonCon and seeking kids in Hot Topic collars, and to see that shift of confrontation turn into a laughing smile made my day as an educator.

I also say an event like Dark Odyssey, because its an odd mix of existence. They SAY they want to have it be a spirituality included BDSM and sexuality/sensuality event, but the awards ceremony drove it home for me. They had never asked ANYONE on pagan staff who they thought should get the award for most Devout camper. They gave it to someone who did a flashy religious themed scene. Very flashy. But there had been one camper who shone like a star, a silent star but a star nonetheless, who had attended every spirituality class and every ritual he could get his hands on, hung out all the time at the shaman cabin and asked pointed and intelligent conversations when he needed info about an overheard comment… and to have these silent stars ignored was hard for me. If its going to have sacred spirituality at an event, it should be uplifted, supported- not just be relegated to the barn or a hook pull behind that same barn and given space. I feel that it should be supported- but that is hard when the advocates for such things are having to work from outside the inner circle of planning. [gripe over]

I managed to bruise my nose on someone’s belt buckle sucking cock in the night cruising down at the obstacle course. Doh. I have to laugh. But wow that night was stunning. Wandering with a friend down around the back side of the lake, where the geese were missing this year, the rain had landed on fireflies that had under the pressure fallen to the ground. The wet grass was covered in a sea of stars that lit our way through the dark.

I turn, growl, and a hand grabs me hard. Fur to fur, feral noises and grunting groans in the dark. Breath to breath he breathes me in and I pull it back out of the energy pulsing along his veins, tasting sweat and skin, and his blood on my lips without a drop of crimson leaving his body. Firm hands, and I can hear it echoing down to my belly- down to my core as he tells me how hot of a man I am.

Not how hot I will be.
Not that he can see the man inside me.
But how hot of a man I am.
And he means it.

Inside I crumble. Outside I moan and cum in my pants, my cock in his hand. Probably helps that he had his mouth on my neck and is a damn find hand job artist.

It was good to connect with Reid and Marcia from the cuddle party movement. I adore them both, and barely got to connect with them at the ill fated never aired Tyra Banks show episode. We laughed about it together, and I got to join the “damn Reid is a damn good kisser” camp. Time with Marcia, my yearly Sunday date, the hot neighbor, and a Baltimore dildo distributor turned into an enthusiastic discussion about the current state of the electoral college in American politics- who says that civics can’t be a fetish. We are joking/discussing having a nerd cabin next year maybe… but the shamans cabin was a really lovely group of folks.

I spun fire and got to watch friends and lovers flesh under firelight. I spent an hour alone on the shore of the beach one afternoon, and one night lost track of myself in the double firelight of torches as the wind caught in my fur. I slept each night under a bear pelt.

Packing my bags and arranging rides for friends and myself (when my fell through at last minute for serious reasons, sending them good thoughts, thank you Whittney for saving my sanity and more) turned into hot neighbor action and moans under duress. Sometimes I am not as ethical of a psy-vamp, I must admit, and I fucked up that night, going for a vein as it were when I could have drunk a lot longer if I’d waited. When one is in hungry desperation, one does not always think straight (ha) as it were. But, it was decided there will be a party to make up for it :)

Cock buried inside his body, I moan, rock, and try not to scream when I hear that we have 5 minutes left.

The dream catcher hung outdoors for a full turning of the day. Lives touched, all but one who was there in spirit walked in silence down to the fire. Hemp burns slowly. I saw Nephtys in the flames, and remember.

I collect another death mage into my life and find myself blessed once more. I get a bit of flirting in with Steve the Moon Monster.

Corn fritters are damn tasty. Having someone who is a Kinsey 6 on the scale lay their lips on mine is even tastier, an affirmation of truths. Armed with his kiss I manage to survive my period showing up again.

A long standing crush finally kissed me, then informed me to take his card. Um, I have all your info darling (hell, you’re on my top friends on MYSpace!) Ah, but do you have my out-of country direct number? Fine, message received, I’ll stay in touch better, ha ha.

Cigar smoke curls around good friends. Tears well up in eyes. I touch a heart and someones understanding of me changes. My understanding of me changes. I cry about children never had, actually face it. Face anger and pain about not getting to go places with my humiliation and edge play that I miss so dearly in my life, places that Hunter went hard with as my Daddy. I need them so badly, but because of the culture around humiliation play that has evolved in the wake of other players with similar physical tastes (but different energetic tastes), I feel I can’t go there at most events. I go back into the humiliation closet, echoes of masks in the tub and a heavy branch across my belly turning in me to come out.

But I don’t burn. Sunday night I freeze under the flame of his wand. I feel the fire and yet I chill. He can’t get fire to light on my legs. I’m not grounded. I’m burning up inside. He sees it having to do with my transitions. He’s right, but its not about gender. He jumps for the easy reading, but I soak it in and dream of dishwear and facing the need to TRUST in the gods. Trust that Mama will take care of me. But it was a hard ride through the flames I’ve refused to touch since Furry and I last went there. I didn’t burn, but oh how I look forward to not freezing.

Singing duet with Nina Hartley. Unplanned cabin strip shows. Delightful service. My firs massage ever that didn’t hurt in some way (actual massage with lotion, me building on Coral rubbing my back in a sun beam a few weeks ago). Kissing my way up Dossie’s ear. Feeling so amazingly loved by Barbara C. saying she will be there in the waiting room with Spencer for my surgery. By Barbara Nitke being able to take pornumentary pics for me. By a voice on the phone reminding me I am loved, so amazing loved. Somewhere across one ocean my girlfriend is having adventures on an isle I miss in my pores from almost a decade ago, Across the other ocean my partner finds his way back towards me energetically a day at a time, and I wait and have faith. But stuck in America, I feel blessed for the friends I have, but look forward to not sleeping alone.

Dark Odyssey, as always, is one of the only events internationally I refuse to miss. For good or ill, it is always different, and always what I need. It was what I needed.

31 July 2007
Prayer to Deep Ocean

I shot a video at midnight on Saturday night, full moon obscured by cloud cover. The waves lapped up over pebbles, driftwood, a 100+ year old coal unloader. 2 nights before I had sat on the beach and a version of this prayer had come out of my mouth that lasted 10-15 minutes- this one only lasts 2.5. As I prayed on Thursday night I sunk into a trance and danced, then at some point collapsed on the beach with a tin silver key in my hand and descended into the waves of darkness and had a much needed conversation. Ocean wash me clean just as my work for Bear lets me wash others clean. Nothing is pure, hooks still wedged in my gills, but an understanding of clear water against the darkness. 2 nights later I came back to the same beach and recorded a piece, knowing someone needs to see it, will understand.

From a merman in service to Bear.

25 June 2007
Shamballa Accepts another Light Healer

Walking up the hill in the heat of the Hawaii summer sun today, I called mi madre to see if a check had arrived that is my deposit $ for my chest surgery. She said no, but asked if I had a moment. Sure. I'm sorry I didn't call sooner, but Louise passed away late last week.

Apparently on Wednesday she went to work (as an in home hospice care provider) as normal. She called work at the end of the shift and let them know she wouldn't be in tomorrow. She went home, and some time that night or the next morning, did not wake up.

On Monday or Tuesday she had called my mother to talk. In a conversation about resurrection, mi madre laughed that she wasn't sure what she herself would end up as. Louise said that she used to think she'd come back as a fish or something, but not now. She's done enough work here. She planned on going on and becoming a light healer with Dr. Laura. Oh, ok mom, mi madre said.

By today, the apartment had been cleared up, she has been cremated, and is being taken off to the ocean.

After mi madre hung up, I cried. I screamed. I yelled about how fucking mad I was, how upset, how much at that moment I wished I'd gotten to see her again. I yelled about light healers and all the woo woo shit of the world.

And I looked down.
At a spiral.
Of silver.
With a huge cut crystal at the center.

Laughed.
Picked it up.
And put it in my ear.

Keep up the good work Louise, we need you down here.

12 February 2007
Back in San Jose...

I say that because I spent almost my whole weekend, except sleeping hours, at PantheaCon, which was not really anywhere or anyplace, it was a thing that hit somewhere between a ritual, a csi-fi-con, a life changing experince, an infomercial, and a way to touch god. My favorite print advertisement this weekend?
"Estalished 1902, OTO- Yes, we're a Cult!"
Before I gow on to talk about the event I need to thank Yani and Gasper who housed me this weekend, even if they rarely saw me. They put up with a few points of wierd woo woo shit they didn't understand, and were mostly graceful about it except the one time they weren't, and so be it. It was still lovely.

So, let the describing begin.

Friday I was hyper-caffinated and had no sleep, but once I realized no one was giving me shit for using the mens room, I coped my shit together and headed to opening ritual. The person supposed to run the ritual was stuck on the east coast, so the event organizer stepped in to do one, and asked who the farthest away folks were. East was a kick ass guy from Hamburg who was with Ecclesia Antinoi who I got to know, along with the other Antinoi, pretty well via the LGBT suite and many drinks. When they asked who had come from furthest south and someone said LA, I asked if they wanted Home, or where you flew from today. They Said Home. I said Sydney. I took South. West was 10 miles away- ha!. North was a great guy from Central Canada. The Antinoi had no familiarity with genericc pagan ritual, so his was a follow along calling of East. I saw the energy in the room drop, so when South came I buckled on my performance voice and folks started screaming and hollering and it was great. I also in doing so got a chance to say "Hi, I'm a guy" sorta, which helped, and it came up in a few other panels, so by the time the weekend was over most folks got it, and hell, a great gaggle of fag boys were flirting with me.

I then headed off to Kenaz Filan's class on The Posession Experience, which was interesting but not amazingly informative, except that the class piped in with some great questions and finally some info flowed. Then off to Basics of Sheilding with Estara T'shirai, and Ilearned very little "new", but did come out with some great ways to rephrase the skillset for talking to others about it, and get to voice some ideas for not attacking psychic vampires. Dinner was random, and I got to wait in the line alone, and ended up being randomly paired up with one of the women who own Good Vibrations, how fabulous.

Morgan Felidae of the Gray School of Wizardry distinctly underimpressed me in her class "My Magic is Not Your Religion", speaking about the sepration of faith and magical ability. GREAT idea. But instead of teaching, she literally read her essay on it, sometimes 2 pages at a time, and rarely really interacted with her audience... I almost fell asleep, and almost left, but the info was so good, I couldn't. Thus, my opinion- read her stuff online, or read books, real life classes she pointed out are not her fortay. But her concepts were really interesting. At 9 I told myself I *would* go to LaSara Firefox's class on Energetics of Attraction. The NLP concepts were fascinating, my partner for the class was lovely- I was falling asleep. S ohalf way through I excused myself, but yup, a few really interesting ideas.

Taxi, crash, sleep overtime. Woke up at 10am and Gasper was sweet enough to drive me in as the taxi was estimating 20+ minutes to pickup, and I would be late for Christopher Penczak's "Invocation, Channeling and the Oracular Mysteries." SOOOO glad I made it to this packed, closed door, class. Of ALL the teachers I saw this weekend, I have to say Christopher and Thorn (coming shortly) were by and far the most informative, energetic, and easy for a variety of levels to digest at their own frequency as it were. I shortly became a Penczak junkie, ok, not a bad one, but gosh he's cute, smart, funny, knowledgeable, and fabulously queer. Anyway, the class was really informative and again, though I knew a lot of it, the stuff on the enlightened masters and astral courts was new to me, I've picked up that I need some more knowledge/training in ceremonial magic work, and more. His visualization was that we all have a door at the back of our scull/top of our spine, where if we do journeying work, we go out through that doorway. If you know how to go out through that doorway, chances are, you can learn how to let other things in through that same doorway. However, we need to gaurd that doorway so random shit doesn't get in, thus he did a great guided meditation to find our personal gaurdian of that doorway, then step through. I started laughing out loud apparently during the visualization, after going through all of it and then you open the door and... MamaBear just looked at me and said "why are you wasting my time?" ok, not quite, but close, and her words were funnier but SO not in english, and I fell over laughing as she really isn't usually funny, but gosh, ha ha ha.

After the lunch break (shopping/drooling), I headed off to Baba Esu Wemimo speak on Maintaining Good Charachter in Yoruba faith with the Orishas. Stunning presentation, though wow, he had the energy of one of those pyramid scheme guys. Then rush off to T. Thorn Coyle's class on The Iron Pentacle. Other than getting seasick and having to reverse left and right (afterwards when I said this, she asked if home was south of the equator, I said, um, yeah... and she said that made sense then, most folks she knew from south of the equator had to flip left and right on the pentacle, and work widdershins), it was an amazing, invergerating, and really informative participatory lecture. Faerey magic stuff (not as in the flyin things, as in the work of Anderson), is really interesting to me.

I had gotten sick when reading the description for the Bennu-Kepher Lodge of the Golden Dawn's ritual "Opening the Mouth of Khepri" and had a fucked up vision, so I had to go. Hm, curious. It was... ok. Lots of pontification, extreme ceremony, gold paint and hugging. But my mouth kept making scarab noises... hm.

Then off to "Creating Sacred Queer Community"- which rocked because there were a lot of folks there from Between the Worlds, the gay mens' sprituality gathering in Ohio. Ea was a great speaker, like him a lot, and is funny over drinks too. Some interesting ideas shared around, then we all grabbed drinks up at the GLBT hospitality suite.

Then... all hail Discordia. I am a Pope. The Papal Innauguration and Wilson memorial was actually quite good, and during it I got to steal and hand the golden apple off to the hot genderfucker with full beard and a dress (a MUPpet, a follower of Mup) who I ended up spening quite a bit of time with. E was totally the prettiest. I ate pope guts.

Then back to the CLBT suite after a short stop to the Gren Faerie Absinthe Lounge. The GLBT suite was great, som fabulous flirting, intense coversations both magical and profane, and some damn hot people. At 4am after it turning into an 8 people left talking about gender and queerdom (a gay boy had asked Stacy in the dress what her story was), Stacy and I headed, lost, out to find er car, then e dropped me off at Gasper's place after we got lost a few times.

Sunday morning, 3 hours of sleep later, I caught another cab and got there for Georgia Ann Hodnett do "You are a What?", which revolved pretty much around her work with a few online groups and her demanding that Harry Benjamin Sydrome get more coverage in the US. I find the syndrome interesting, and need to read more, because it states that gender is hard wired in the brain and that male brains can be in female bodies and visa versa and that body changing is necessary because of gendered brains. Its really interesting, and I have no doubt it exists, but in pushing to accept the syndrome, what will happen to the rest of the gender radical, trans, or fucker folks? What of those of us who know many truths? I'm curious what the lines are for the syndrome, and how queerdom affects it.... must do more research.

I then went to see Donald Michael Kraig speek on Hypnosis that works, and gosh I'm glad he did. The history and application stuff was interesting, but his short mention of MK-Ultras techniques combining pain, pleasure, sleep dep, chemicals etc WITH hypnosis gave me a key into some of my history with hypnosis as an erotic tool that I hadn't been able to verbalize. I would like to formally train in hypnotherapy at some point I think...

I had high hopes for Isaac Bonewits' presentation on Varieties of Initiatory Experience, but I was dissapointed when he focussed almost entirely on modern wicca and druidic experience. However, his 3-step system of styles of initiation I found facinating (initiation as community acknowledgement, initiation as ordeal, initiation as passing on power/energy), even if I have decided that wiccan and modern druiding ordeals seem to be, well, pussy. I talked to someone outside later about varieties of ordeal work and their eyes went buggy. Hm.

I had had other plans, but then I went to The Sorcerer's Initiation Ritual with Penczak, and I am glad I went. Some work happened in there, or at least started in there, that was important. By the end of the ritual I had painted my mouth shut, made a few deals other side, and yeah... can't say more. Other than with my mouth painted shut it was part of no words til sunrise, that I fucked up on once and lost 8 things from the deal from saying 8 words. Power of words lil one, power of words.

In silence I went to dinner.
In silence I went to Taylor Ellwood's lecture and guided work on Neurotransmitter Spirit Guides, IE how to do magic to effect your brain chemistry. Whether Hunter is aware of it or not, that boy has some great basic skills in this, and I want to but "Spirit Alchemy" for him so he can, gosh, apply his laying on shit to his own brain.

In silence I went to see Aupuni Iwi'ula of the Kamala Foundation speak on his work as a kahuna, and hawai'ian spirituality. I helped for no reason and put out energy and words for no reason on a pure slip during the purging ritual... so right afterwards I headed to go catch a cab, come back, read, do some more work a la the deal, then sleep.

Today has been packing. Laundry should arrive tomorrow.
So thats mostly what I got up to this weekend. Amazing outfits. I bought myself a small necklace. I found a sigil for some stuff Hunter and I had been talking about. I hit a few walls. I found some great ideas. I hope to do it again next year, maybe teaching next time.

28 March 2007
Airplane Rambles on Initiation

Tues March 27, 10pm, somewhere over Oregon I believe...

Finding out today while reading that Isaac Bonewits had been a member of the early Church of Satan as a teenager was interesting to me, and left me wanting to ask him about his transition from that school to being a founder for ADF, etc. It also made me want to go back and transcribe my notes from his lecture I attended entitled “Varieties of Initiatory Experiences.” I had been hoping to see more examples or ties into other ordeal workers, but was disappointed to find out, in my own view, Bonewits group of druids are wimps when it comes to ordeals.

According to Bonewits’ breakdown, there are 3 major approaches to initiation:

1 = Initiation as an acknowledgement of status already received. Examples include graduation, ordination and bat/bat mitzvahs. The point here is to gather together community to recognize growth. Often these are time-bound, and seen as sen scaras (rites of passage).

2 = Initiation as an ordeal of transformation. Examples from Bonewits include learning how to swim, fasting, sleep, flogging, being tempted/exhausted, locked into a space, and vision quests. This may be augmented with drugs depending on cultural goals: to induce altered states of consciousness to be reimprinted, often death and rebirth being key to giving up or growing out of an old identity. Ordeals serve as a screening mechanism (only survivors survive initiation to join the tribe as full members), promote or force growth, and unusually unlike type of initiation 1, failure IS possible.

3 = Initiation as a method for transferring knowledge, power, or gnosis. Examples include transmission of gnosis, apostolic succession, and traditions that pass on from initiator to initiate in a variety of esoteric rituals. These initiations open one up to external source as used by a group/community, to be better connected to a deity, ancestors, psychic rewiring for the flavor of energy used by a group, and are thus given right to act or speak for deity/ancestors/etc.

The key to all of these is that RESPONSIBILITY, RIGHTS, and PRIVELEGES are all tied together. One can not receive true initiations and take only the priveleges of an initiation and not the other two.

Bonewits then went on to break down groups into a few different types that he had experience with (interestingly he skilled his history with LaVeys group) to speak about their initiation styles.

Neopagan: in Bonewits view, “Uncle Gerald” handed out titles quickly to build up numbers in the faith, and that the 1st initiation is unfailable, thus leading to “2nd degree sickness” in the witch community. There is a lot of speed initiation crunching.

Ancient/Modern Druidic into RDNA and ADF: when druids were a caste of society, children were initiated into the craft in type 1. MesoDruids however borrowed from Masons, and the reality is that modern druidis stuff can’t go back more than 200+ years. In RDNA (Reformed Druids of North America), initiations are less formal than Masonic paths, where 1st order= Nature is good; 2nd order= drinking whiskey and pronouncing how good nature is; 3rd order involves an all night vigil that is a formal ordeal. In ADF 1st circle initiation is a self dedication with an al night vigil.

What do you get from initiation?
Recognition for hard work
Ready to be tested, pushed forward
Close magical ties to a tradition

Role of Clergy in Initiation: If someone is competent as clergy/initiator, type 1 needs supervision of group ritual. Type 2 involves passing judgement to say if someone in fact succeeded in the ordeal (he doesn’t mention the option of deity informing whether the person has succeeded). How to tell if someone succeeded include- are they alive, not crazy, tell of a vision, and did they actually do the entire ritual/ordeal- it is important that all agree on the result if passed. Type 3 varies depending on culture/group.

How does initiation change initiator or witnesses? (he didn’t really answer)
What is the best way to council someone who fails an initiation (he told a really pathetic story in my opinion of a couple who, when one failed and one succeeded, proceeded to say that the priestess was unfair, etc- but Bonewits did not actually answer this question)

Self Dedication is NOT Self Initiation.

Rites of passage change your relationship to a community.
Time delay fuses are often in place on initiations- it may sink in or actually go into effect days later.
Building rites of passage and other rituals is an art form.
Who are we in relation to the rest of the pack?

That was the lecture, but the side stories about what Bonewits considered an ordeal… made me a bit sad. Apparently making someone lie in a shallow grave under an open sunny sky is really really hard. Apparently an all night vigil on a cool night wearing sandals, jeans and a flannel shirt contemplating the universe and your place in it is a deeply transformative ordeal. I suppose for some people it might be- but gosh, maybe I expect more from someone who wants to learn truths of the universe. Maybe I shouldn’t say such, because I recently had to do an ordeal of being silent in public for a day, at a huge event, and when I spoke of it later to a friend, he said “so what.” To me, a one day oath of silence was huge. For him, as a wall flower often times, it would not have been a big deal. Thus, truly challenging ordeals are important only if they are in fact an ordeal for the person in question. Hook suspensions are not a good example of an ordeal for a hook monkey, unless of course deity steps in and makes it an ordeal. In my case, when people have asked me if my hook hang for Mama Bear was an ordeal, I have to answer- kinda. Making some specific changes to my brain and life are far more of an ordeal than what I physically went through- which involved being taken up in the air 3 times whereupon I passed out and went astral journeying each time, then was lowered to the ground, returned to my body, meditated for a period, then went again. 3 times out, three gifts gained, 3 promises made. I would say it was a transformative journey, but would I call it an ordeal- certainly not in my view. Was it using ordealistic tools to push me past my physical blocks (such as my lack of ability to go astral by casual choice) a huge part of that commitment- yes. Could it even be seen as a moment of Gnostic transference- yes. So did I undergo an initiation under the hand of a fellow spirit worker, guided by spirits- not really. See above, dedication is not initiation, unless we take in divinatory initiation, being initiated by spirits, and the reality is that isn’t quite what I did either.

Just contemplating- ok, back to reading now.

12 February 2007
Cats, cuttings, and my Saturday ramblings

I am not a cat person. Ocassionally I serves as a petting bitch for the cats in the lives of my friends, but I am not a cat person. I like to feed them, pet them, then get out of the way of felines. But this weekend I think 10 people on my friends list posted pics of their cats or their friends cats- you will not convert me!

My mail server is down. No email. No idea if anyone's writted since Saturday 2am. So if ya did, sorry. Means I'll have to try to dig up my client's phone number for tomorrow and call him to confirm instead of emailing, how annoying.

I am getting off my ass today and risking- been doing a lot of that as of late. Today's risk- shooting a never met in person model. I have an odd track record, some great, some abysmal, on this subject... but we'll see what happens.

This weekend was amazing, draining, amazing, horrid, painful, funny, and overall good. Saturday morning I picked up my medic bracelet from mi padre, then mi madre and I hit the pike place market for cheesecake. Off to the bus, more porn writing, more reading, grounding out into the road, and even a tiny nap. Rogue Spark, Coral's boy, met me at the bus station which was lovely, and he and I headed off to Katrina's to drop my bags and just chat- I love his brain, and the way he actually listens. I dug his drum stories. Then Coral showed up, and she beamed at having two boys to take care of her, and I melted. That woman has gifts I tell ya, even if she intimidates the hell out of me at times.

We headed off to Lulu's, where I saw folks, people stumbled or didn't over name stuff, and we set up to play- the plan had been a beating I needed, and then a cutting for some woo woo stuff that needed done, but thats not quite what happened at Lulu's.

I play hard. Thats what I get told about my bottoming. But the reality is I'm a pussycat compared to how hard I feel I used to play as a bottom. The good ole' days of the drop into shock and come back out all while still egtting fucked and cut and pierced (gosh I miss bottoming for mr. Throckmorton). But apparently I still play hard in the eyes of others. I got beaten. I needed to be beaten. I needed to be allowed to unabashadly scream and cry. We got an ok to do so... but apparently my screams of noooo while gurgling through my spit and asthma attack and tears carried too well through the concrete walls and insulation of the delicious dungeon space, and the party host asked if we could not scream- moaning, groaning and light screams ok, but what we were doing was not. Oh well. But yeah, that point on I ended up zoning instead, which was ok, but not what I needed- good thing I got in enough of what I needed before that point.

Coral says I am the only person she knows who falls up. She said she'd hit me til I fell. Well, I thought I'd fall, but nope, I'd go up instead of down, and then I'd go sideways into walls, but not a lot of down. Apparently i finally did, and Coral realized our nametags were on the bottom of her boot. Note to tops- If i scream out a body part, it means if you hit it again I think it will dislocate, or if I scream it out and hold it, I probably did dislocate it. I apparently forgot to mention it, sigh. But no major dislocations, so all good.

I was in a coma upstairs for a while and had to stop the urge to punch my other party hostess when she came up and squeezed my shoulder- fuck- did ya not pay attention to the last hour or two of me being beaten until I was turning shades of deep ocean? Thanks for the bruise squeezing, not (sorry, just saw borat).

But around the same time we were not asked to scream (gods Coral is pretty throwing punches and going deep sadist), Coral also got a hit of bad juju coming into the space, and I felt it go off too. If we were going to be doing a bloodletting for ritual work for a magical object that's being forged for me, this was no longer the place to do it. She called RogueSpark and he came to pick us up, and I cried in the car while no one watched. Then off to his place where I told her about what needed done, and she started doodling in crayons on paper, and I fell over with laughter as she presented the amazing sketch and I pointed out the horns on the bottom, jutting up from the lava, and couldn't help it.

She set down blankets, RogueSpark set down towels, we cleaned the area and cleansed our space and RS and I chose music- all stuff from when I was last in Hawai'i. Or within that year or so. Placebo. Red Hot Chili Peppers. The Cure. And the opening song- Milla Jovavich's "The Centleman Who Fell." It still reminds me of Ukpyr.

The cutting is on my mid-right thigh, of a volcano pouring water down into the ocean, running over objects in its way, but capturing pain and fear in its path and holding them for future generations to find, or not. The lava hits the waves and splashes back in the shape of horns. Above the lava flow at the top of the volcano is an eye looking down, crying lava tears, and to the other side from the tears, flying around the volcano, are 7 birds, 7 sisters, watching on... one far away.

I grunted and did not move. I had to set an example of what I needed from them. I did not move and grunted and felt her come to the surface, shake her mane and go back inside to watch the show as she felt the pain. I did not scream. I threw my head back. It has been so long since I got cut for more than an inch or so... I only do it for ritual work of some sort. Cutting is not play for me, never really has been, even when I was a cutter as a kid. My cuts on my upper inner left arm track the times I was raped. The cutting Greenman did twice on my upper outside left arm follow that last line out, tarnsform it into the lines of a 13 path labrynth, one cutting for emotional healing and one for physical healing after a car crash. My cuts under my breasts are for my blood dolls. My cuts on my inner upper right leg are about lonliness and a push to not be there any more, 12-13 years later. I want to have gills cut into my sides post chest surgery, and they will be about many other things as well. I do not grok cutting for pleasure as a bottom. I do not do it lightly. Even when I cut others, it is one of the most intensely personal and ritual things I can do in my bdsm arsenal. My battery should know.

Afterwards we did 3 blood prints- one for the fire, one for my alter, and one for Coral's. Th efirst print, all of the bandages, the 2nd blade (the first got thrown in the sharps container before we considered it), and all of the bloody towels were packaged up so I could send it to Winter later this week. While Coral tried to ground back out from the electricity and fire in the air, Rogue bandaged up my leg and then he froze. Metal stuck between Water and Fire, he was alive with energy and was immobilized.

Its interesting, when in my 25% modality, where I have spent most of the past 10 years, I was proclaimed breath queen... air. Other side of the pendulum I feel fire in my fingertips, and too much work sends me frozen, inner fire spent. I ground out, neutral, underwater. I find peace in trash and concrete, city spirits who get it, and through whose arms i have understood nothingness and bliss. Hm.

I slept hard and short Saturday night at Katrina's.

22 January 2007
Pagan Clergy at Large

I was going back through some of my notes from Keepers Crossing, mentally pre-prepping for visiting Cauldron Farm and gettingr eady for PantheaCon. I came across a list of concepts for different roles that individuals can serve in the community. I felt it needed shared.

Chaplian
Priest/ess (running group/admin/rituals, community accessable)
Pastor (outreach to community outside)
Clergy (outrach to fellow pagans, teaching, home visits)
Shaman (god spoken/ridden)
Lore Masters
Bards
Craftspersons
Midwives
Witch/Warlock
Will workers (Thaumaturgy)
Spirit Workers (Umbrella Term)
Mystics

Why is this important? It seems like, in the pagan community espeicially, and the sacred sex community even more, there are SO many of us trying to fill all of these hats. The main reason for a lot of this is because there are just not enough folks willing and able to be anything other than layfolk in the community, and so the Priestess who should be focussing on making amazing group rituals and keeping the admin of a coven running finds herself also serving as clergy to other pagans outside her coven, speaking to gods, keeping the community and mythic lore, training apprentices, and also being the coven craftsperson for props. Its draining, on top of a day job and family roles, plus *gasp* having a life.

I think this applys to the kink community as well. I think too many of us feel like we have to wear too many hats, but the reality is that most folks are just not good at everything. For example, though I can schmooze and network like a madman, I am just not good at juggling community politics, and should not be in charge of running events over 50 people where I have to worry about that stuff too much. To paraphrase my friend Shay- "Why the fuck do I have to be a Bondage Master, I'm an amazing Single Tail top, that is what I have a great friend named Joe for"

So its something to consider. Iff you are a pagan layperson, what skills do you have that could lead to a better community at large? Lorekeeper? Craftsperson? Outreach? Mystical Reading work? Finding a venue?

The terms above are not cast in stone, but they are a place to start for me to consider my own terms, and perhaps for you to do so as well.

I am also considering these things as for the second time in my life I have been asked to Priest/ess for someone's handfasting, and I am contemplating my role in the public pagan community at large. In the past 6 years I've led a number of large public rituals at events like GoddesSMack and Dark Odyssey, but seem to have stepped away from doing so in non-sexualy open contexts. I find this interesting given my initial involvement 13+ years ago with CUUPS (Covenant of Unitarian Universalist Pagans), and as I debate presenting my Invocations/Evocations class at Goddess Gallery in Portland (talked with the owner about using the venue, and he is game, thanks Coral). Where do I fit in the public pagan community? Outsider, or insider bringing the voice of a thosuand voices to those who might not hear them otherwise? Just considering...

31 October 2006
Meditation Ramblings

Last night, must say, Little Miss Sunshione- a total must see fucked up Americana movie- thank you Cub for dragging me out :) My trip home was good except for the last leg from Campsie station to the house.

I kind of like folks turning around and gawking
I am ok with folks slowing down driving , looking at me, asking if I am available for a date
I am wigged by but ok with folks stopping their cars and asking and keep asking
I flipped my shit being lost in Campsie (the street sign was literally turned the wrong way), having a Muslim gentleman stop his car (not usually an ethnic issue, but the "Cats in the street with meat" thing gets to me), get out of his car, come up behind me, try to put his hands on me and ask if I am good, am I looking for something, can he help, now, while not physically backing down...

I got home ok, but if wigged me.

Anyway, today I ended up having some good chats with Laura (L'Erotica looks to be ON, and the show is starting to look good... but:

Note to Ausies: If you are interested, I am seeking Circus Freaks to beat, strap-on fuck, laugh at and attack me on stage. Ideas: Bearded ladies, human lions, human ponies, clowns, tattood ladies, muscle men, giants, midgets, punks, freaks, etc- any interested parties should poke me with a stick and I can see about getting you in discount to L'erotica

But the hard/good thing today was doing some spiritual woo shit and ending up having a conversation that plunged me into a really deep meditative state to deal with some of my emotional stuff. I am still trying to cope with some of my revelations about funeral issues from Keepers Crossing, and how I feel about the ethics of all involved there...

Stop running
he screamed
burning bright
hands around my spine
shaking me like a rag doll

Stop running
i screamed
going cold
heart in my hands
shaking like a rag doll

children and body ethics dancing in a dream of languid sighs as my thighs open wide before a gulf and dotted lines are drawn in the flesh a fleshy dream that turns blue as ice cold as death and she stares back from the screen a distant memory.

A call shakes me awake.
A call keeps me silent.
Turn another page, another dollar, what's your excuse?

I need to make a difference and help people.
I need to not lock myself away.
If I am to be my own freak, I need a cicus.
The debate is before us, waiting here, so lets brush through the rubble clean the streets and clear the air...

I'll be at the Sly Fox tonight- I *may* do one number, hell, I could do 2 (I have 2 boy outfits with me, and music), but we'll see how stuff evolves when I get there. Until then I'm hanging out in Newtown, debating gym memberships, grabbing dinner.

17 July 2006
...and then I got the Goddess a beer...

ok, someone else got her beer, but I brought over the snacks and the wine...

Sunday morning I awoke after two hours of sleep at Gazer's house to hop on a flight back home. My layover in Chicago left me with plenty of time to make it to Mass. Yup, once in a blue moon I still go to Mass, something I should probably tell mi padre, even if I don't celebrate the eucharist because as I'm not a practicing Catholic I find it disrespectful. Father George McKenna did a lovely job speaking of the tribulations of Amos and speaking out to support our troops and praying for a call to war around the world. I was touched by his call towards finding a simpler life, as the loudspeakers at Midway called out for missing passengers. Lady of Loreto, patron saint of air travel.

Side note to catholic pagan crossover folks- Saturday is the Saints day for St. Mary Magdalene.

Back home my Furry One met me at the airport and we gathered bags and headed home with no drama, the first time no airport drama in... ages. I kept waiting for the other shoe to fall, but the reality is that so far in my day and a half home, everything has gone swimmingly and I am counting my blessings. We came home and changed, and headed out past Vancouver for Epagomenal days celebrations.

A piece about Egyptian Mythology. There were 360 days in the calendar, 5 seasons of 72 days. But Nut was pregnant and cursed not to give birth during the calendar year, so Geb gambled and won five extra days outside the calendar. Nut, after carrying her kiddos for 28 years in her womb, gave birth to five bouncing adults who came out ready to do their stuff. They are Osiris, Set, Isis and Nephthys. Horus was born in the same time of years many years later after Set and Osiris had their battle and Isis made the first dildo.

So The Epagomenal days are 5 days outside of the calendar year. They are also the Egyptian New Year. They are timed with the risisng of the star Sirius in the sky. In Egypt, this is a very different time of year to the NW, lattitude issues and all. Around here it is Early August, but the folks who decided to host the ritual ran it a few weeks early, so be it.

I don't do stuff with Egyptian religion, not my pantheon. But my friend gift_of_isis had been cast as the living goddess, and the priestess for the rite was Isadorra Forrest who had officiated our wedding, and I'd been meaning to get involved in the local pagan community more- so I decided to go. I am really glad I did, even if I almost faded pre-ceremony from lack of sleep and long travel.

Folks had gone overboard on the penis theme- penis candy, cakes, pasta, ice cubed, phallic food galors, and ball-shaped food. Did I mention the first dildo thing? Osiris had been ripped into 14 pieces by Set and scattered to the corners of the world, but Isis found 13 pieces... all save Osiris' phallus. She made a replacement out of mud of the nile and breathed fresh life into it and put it all together with her husband/brother's other parts, and brought him back to life then fucked him silly. Yeah, some folks went overboard on the penis theme.

It was good getting to know some folks in the local Hermetic Society, and was glad to be part of the ritual. The default entrance chant? Osiris. Nephthys. Set. Isis. Horus. Who woulda thought ;) Lots of winding walking, and finally making it to the temple space where the five god/dess voices were waiting. Each read a good chunk of info about the god/dess they were working with... and I fell for Nephtis and Set. Wow. Yeah, I have been doing my chunk of ordeal work, and its taking me down some dark/left path stuff, including some demonic work with at least one specific gent... but the vocalization of the work of Set was really inspirational- the harshness of transformation, the brutality of the soul, the tough choices that need done and the honesty of the bleakness we each face. Nephthys, dark side of the moon, lady of truths between lines and dreams that are more than dreams. I ended up leaving offerings for both of them later on, and today ended up going looking for statuary of each, and upon failing got black tourmaline for my alter.

After the readings the Isis was brought out and her ladyship was invoked into the blue-clas Isis body form. Nile water down my chest and her lips on mine, blue petals washing down my tears. This was after I was hit by a feral growl and I walked away from the ritual just as Isis was coming in as it were- I got food and brought it forward for the vessel and its inhabitant. Yup, I do decent service, and yet again I went into service role as soon as a God/dess was present. Just wired that way. Something bigger than a breadbox makes its presence known and i want it to be comfty and not to invoke wrath... thus wine, choclate, dried fruit, and lots of music are called for and I kept helping it coming to her ladyship and the attendees. As soon as SHE left the building, as it were, my service brain switched off and I was back to being tired and thirsty. The joy of being bound... I speak of it tongue in cheek, but it is true, it is an honor and a joy.

Back home Furry tucked me in and we ended up playing, hard... and I'm still shaken up. Its been a while, and I'd almost written it off, oh me of little faith. What it took? The little things- acknowledging me as all of me even if you won't play with all of me. Researching hermaphrodieties in egyptian mythology (Maat engorged, triple vultures), saying to folks that when not a lot of men showed up that obvoiusly I had shown up in the wrong clothes if they needed guys, etc...

It is the little things like that that put me in a good space.
At Midway a vendor called me Sir. It is the little things that make me feel good.

I am masculine and feminine, male and female. In acknowledging and laughing about both with me, and then still calling me his good girl, I melted and came like a fountain.

Today after hitting the bank I walked home, stopping to pick up essential oils and black tourmaline. Then the Furry One and I watched TV together, me having cleaned a lot and unpacked. It is- good.

So much work to do, so many projects to tackle, but I need to be- this. I need to be domestic. I went on a ledge emotionally today and bought myself my first chest compacting shirts online, I have no idea how I'll like them and if this a good idea or a bad one for my chest dysphoria issues... but I need to find out.

Blessed be.

4 January 2006
Visions

20 September 2005
Back to civilization? Dark Odyssey pt 1

24 September 2004
The Ritual of the Evening Star: A Reflection

This story is my own, from memory of what I can remember. We each remember the world through our own lens on reality. This is mine. Many will tell their own tales, and each is as valid as the last. These are my interpretations, as I recall them from the veil of trance lifting the veil and trying to remember... because people have asked. Because we each need to walk away with new knowledge. This story is my own.

Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Innana

The Ritual of the Evening Star was described in the Dark Odyssey Program:
We gather to worship the Goddess/es of love and sexuality associated with the planet Venus. As in the Great Rite, we will seek to make our knowledge and conversation with each other a vehicle for knowledge and conversation with Deity. You may choose (and change, as you feel inspired) your own limits on how you will manifest Deity to others and allow others to manifest Deity to you. Whatever physical limits you may choose, all will participate in a sacred and sexual spiritual communion. Please bring a blanket or other ground cover. Nudity is required.

Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Innana

Wilddragon approached me 2 days before the ritual asking if I might be interested in calling one of the quarters. East. Light bringer. Golden Dawn. Air and Sun. Feathered beasts on wing and soul. I agreed.

I knew I would be challenged- I have a personal issue with being touched by strangers. Even when I go to swing clubs I have historically only played with those I knew before, or those who I'd had a chance to talk with beforehand, get to know. I was challenging myself at Dark Odyssey by working in the Brothel (a story to come soon) and by participating in the Ritual of the Evening Star. The first I approached by taking on the mantle of whore and letting each moment conect only for the moment then let it wash away off my feathers. The ritual I approached by taking myself into a trance, breathing in the essence of the universe and letting me go, checking out, becoming open and letting ego go.

Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Innana

Directly before the ritual began a woman showed up who was to act as South... Wilddragon had fogot to include her in the afternoon run-through- Wilddragon called North, Major called West. Femcar was to act as our Temple Priestess, our conduit to the divine, our mouthpiece to She who would. We were told to let the spirit move us as we would. We went through the rough walk-through. We disrobed and candles in hand went out to find those waiting for the ritual.

I wore an amber and silver necklace, a wreath of feathers, and a sword tied about my nude hips with a black and gold sash. I carried a yellow candle, and a script. I dislike scripts. In my own magical workings I prefer to be moved as the spirit moves me. I prefer to speak when called to by myself, not forced into set words that are not my own... but I did as requested. I gave. I give.

Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Innana

As the celebrants came into the temple space, I saw before me what I knew was coming- 3/4 men, 1/4 women... not a large group, maybe 25 people in all. Plus Raven, beutiful Raven, dancing between male and female, tight laced... the only among us to wear clothing. The rest were sky-clad.

Wilddragon, as priest, called to us to answer that each who entered was willing to be changed. That none would take pleasure not freely given. Spoke of the layout of the space- thatthe center mat was to belong to the Temple Priestess who would take all comers. That the four benches around that matt were safe space, for those who longed to be part of the ritual and energy but did not wish to be involved physically. That the mingling and walking spaces were for those who wished to mingle, walk, be moved as the spirit called them. That the matresses and matts in the rest of the room were for those who wished to pair or group off and explore each other as moved.

Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Innana

We bound each in the circle to four bindings:
Let all within be bound to speak and hear the Truth
Let all within be bound in Perfect Love and Trust
Let all within be bound in the sacred web of life
Let all within be opened to the Mysteries of Love

From East I called that this was a place of men
From West Major called that this was a place of women
From South she called that this was a place of nature
From North he called that the was Sacred Space.

Skin to Skin, we cast the circle. Body to body we moved together around the central matt. Then each quarter in turn called out to invoke the pillars of Dawn, Dusk, Midday and Midnight, the Sword, the Cup, the Tree the Standing Stones.

The circle was cast, we called forth Femcar, our Priestess, our lady in trance, and I began to push myself under. Open myself up. In the center stood a woman who became divine. In the center stood a man who remained a man. I let out the breath that is the word of god should all breathe it out at once, the world in perfect unison. I breathed out and let the world rock me. The world would rock me.

Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Innana

She came forward and read the Charge of the Goddess intersperced with our own chanting. I let myself in, on, down. Our priestess was led forward, drew in, she was drawn in, and as the priest spoke, she pulled his body into her.

We were pulled in. We all pulled the circle in. Bodies became voices became flesh and it all spun around me. I let hand touch spirit touch heart and as we were moved to speak we spoke. As we were moved to touch we touched. As we were moved to kiss we kissed. As we were moved to let bodies mingle we did so. I let go and let it all ride me. Let my spirit ride me. Let Her spirit ride me. Let go. And felt others give in as well.

Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Innana

This is the point where I must point out that sexual magic doesn't really work like this for everyone. Some of us were there to get over our body issues. Some were there for magic. Some were there to be accepted. Some were there out of a hope of getting laid. Humans are greedy. And unfortunately, when we in fact "act as the spirit moves us", not all spirit agrees with one another. One may be called to plunge into raw animal power. One may be called to sensuality. One may be called to isolation. One may be called to connect with someone who is busy connecting with three other people already, sorry, spin on brother, spin on.

And, unfortunately... we had not been given much guidance ahead of time. We had been told "act as the spirit moves you." And we did. But over the din of desire, moan to sigh to breath to flesh we head the words of the Priest calling first for us to be moved, then to protect our bodies (supplies provided at each cross-quarter, condoms for the masses) when called, then to not be greedy with the Priestess? Then to pull ourselves out from the places of the rutting beast?

Are we meant to be moved as the spirit moves us?
Or are we meant to be moved as the spirit moves you?

Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Innana

The Goddess lay not only with the man in his bed but with the beasts in the field. She is not only lover but protector. She is not one thing, she is many. And if we are asked to be move as she moves us, who has the right to tell us after the fact that we are wrong?

*If* the Priest had not wanted us to delve to those places of rutting beast, had issues with someone spanking the invocation of his beloved diety... perhaps giving us as officants for the circle guidance ahead of time may have been in order. We as a group could have guided the circle. But once the circle is full swing trying to steer an uncontrollable force in a different direction- you may as well shout at the storm to go to your neighbor's fields, not yours.

Are we meant to be moved as the spirit moves us?
Or are we meant to be moved as the spirit moves you?

Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Innana

But I opened myself up to words and let them guide me. I took in each word and used it as my guide. I loosened my connection to the outer divine hoping to move through me and listened to those things around me. And just then I heard...

I see the strength of the Goddess within you

Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Innana

My inner strength is not loving. My inner strength is fury. Is blind rage. Is generations of violence and rage bottled in my soul to protect me when I would be harmed, when my family is to be harmed. I would rip off your head and spit down the stump. She within me would dance in your blood.

Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Innana

I responded that this was not her place to dance.

Again the voice came...

I see the strength of the Goddess within you, let her out

Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Innana

She boiled towards the surface and I began to melt away. I tried to hold on, I held on for dear life, I chanted to myself that this is not your place to dance, this ritual is meant to be of the rites of love, not fury. She called back with a roar.

A growl left my throat.

Again my human voice tried in a whisper to say that this is not her place to dance (no, no please, this isn't okay, this isn't what is supposed to be happening. I'm supposed to be having sexy fun time. I'm supposed to be getting over my issues with strangers touching me. I'm supposed to be ridden by desire, not fury. no, no please)

Again the voice came...

I see the strength of the Goddess within you, let her out

Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Innana

I roared, pushed him away, stomped off, and headed to where I had been told safe space was. Human me held on, tears pouring down as she growled and raged, did not let myself look for the sword I had set aside, did not strike out as She longed to in blind fury to those who would call her out in vain. I held on and prayed.

I sat down, her claws digging ionto the wood beneath me, shook back and forth, held on for dear life, tried to bring her back down, let her go.

I was not given that right.

The Priest came forward, concerned, loving, and asked what was going on. I turned my head from him, I didn't want to talk. He faced me again, asked what was wrong and She spoke to him, and I cried. She hated him for his lack of fear, his demysticfication of her strength in death. He spoke of his walking that line before, how She musthave words for him, and She felt only rage. I turned away from him. He faced me again. Please go away I tried to whisper, grant me the strength to let her go. I don't want to hurt anyone. I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to tear down these walls, but she does. Go away.

I was not given that right.

He wanted Her wisdom. He wanted to keep his reigns as Priest. He wanted to be loving and in doing so stifled me.

Are we meant to be moved as the spirit moves us?
Or are we meant to be moved as the spirit moves you?

Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Innana

I screamed leave me alone... he finally did. I shook back and forth, I cried, I let Her claws dig into my flesh rather than his. I held on for dear life and slowly swam up from the depths as the Priest closed the circle. Femcar had let the divine ride her and had been told it was not the way the Goddess should ride her. I had been force-ridden by Her and was not allowed to be safe on the chairs I had been told were safe space. I had been told the seats were safety for those who didn't want to be physically involved and he touched me on the leg in assurance and in doing so broke the sanctity and safety of that space. She wanted to rip him to pieces for defiling the circle. I almost let Her. I almost let Her and that terrified me.

But I didn't.

And in that I find hope, because 6 years ago I would have struck him, would have hurt him, would have tried to destroy him, let her ride me... But I didn't. And in that I find hope and strength.

Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Innana

With the circle closed I got up to leave. I needed out of that space. I needed Water. I wanted to run into the lake but remmebered the snapping turtles and decided against it. I headed for the pool and the Priest stopped me.

You're not okay.

Let me go.

You're not grounded.

(Damn right I'm not, let me go ground myself!!!!) Let me go.

You're not safe.

Let me go. Please. I can't be here. Let me go, this is Bridgett speaking, please let me go.

He opened the door and I ran. I flew. Wings of East of Falcon of Hawk I flew down to the pool and rushed in. I walked into the water and let all of my energy out into the waters. My arms rose to the North, East, South, West... and I let it all go.

Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Innana

I came back, wrapped in fabric, and someone got me a blanket. Someone else helped me dry off. Wilddragon tried to connect with me... and having him tell me he had hoped to be intimate with me and was sad the ritual hadn't gone as planned wasn't what I needed to hear. I wanted to go. He said I wasn't okay. I told him I'd take Galen with me. Galen agreed. He let me go.

Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Innana

I had hoped to dance in the strip show to let the energy out... but it didn't work out for a thousand reasons. Furry and Galen took care of me in turns.

Later that night I had chances to talk to Femcar, Phantom, Major... it was needed. I am blessed.

Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Innana

I am stronger than I once was.
I can be touched and have it be okay if I listen to me and find ways to make the world listen to my needs. If I grab my needs and run with them and not give in.
I can use trance as a positive tool for debauchery and sensuality.
I am interested in this sort of ritual, as long as rules are clearly stated beforehand and not added after the fact.
I love.
I live.
I soar.
I am blessed.

Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Innana

Major was concerned about my inner rage. I am at times, but the fact that I didn't hurt anyone tells me a lot about how far I've come. I feel empowered. All who entered the circle swore we would accept being cnhanged. I have been changed. And though all the trials and tribulations, I feel blessed. It has led to some amazing conversations and connections. It has taught me a lot about me. It has shown me about th etools of my heart and soul. And the Amber blazes brightly, reminding me how challenging work as a sexual healer can be, but how right it is to call to me.

This story is my own. Each will tell their own version of the tale. Truth comes from seeing all sides. Blessed be.

5 August 2004
Puma at the Gate- A Banishing Ritual

23 January 2002
A poem for a fallen God

Rise
will of the gods
will of the goddess
Rise
at my will
my puppet
my creation

Rise
let me flail you
let me use you
Rise
my creation
my puppet

I write my sigils
blood upon your flesh
I fill you
essence of earth
still waters
the fire from my lips
the air to fill you
to let you Rise

Rise
let me flail you
let me use you
Rise
my creation
my puppet

And as I walk away
Fall
Fall
by broken toy
my puppet

22 January 2002
A weekend in the Bay

I walk down the stairwell
green garden
golden wheat
you are
sky god
belataine mate
meet me by the sea
meet me at the sea
and we will walk in together

let me scribe
your sigils in the sand
lemon juice
stings my skin
evoke you
invoke you
I call on you
and we go deeper
deeper
and we will walk in together

4 July 1998
Allihes St. Nicholas Church & Cemetary

dead laid to dead with a view of the atlantic and the copper mines that sent so many to early graves Harrington Downing O’Sullivan names that are traced in my blood from the seventh son of seven sons whose name like mine appeared on granite these overgrown grasses lost titles on overturned stones from years of solitude and the demands of death gnaw lighter now than years ago when there was a longing to be set with the generations before razor blade dreams looking at on faces on the street standing the test of time with my smile wind wracked and sand blasted wrinkles from an angry ethereal sea the Sleive Mist mountains clouded in clinging cotton slow moving as molasses or the minds of country folk’s change from year to year on issues like homosexuality and outsiders like myself… and in the cemetery the oldest known church on the isle whose window empty stood the test of time but walls like toy soldiers fallen to the earth among the Kelly’s and O’Neil’s.

THE GREAT BARRINGTON POTTERY HOUSE

Japanese style pottery from Cork Co. definitely appeals to my sense of style silent paper prayers Kanji guardians all about and some distant cousin telling us of creation processes as his son Tim Harrington pulled lovingly blue blonde upon his trouser leg speaking of the glaze the artist’s signature from scratch ground fire from the local copper turquoise and flashes of neat crossing one’s fingers to produce blues to vibrant beating burgundy … leaving now garbage sultry shipsers the bullet train to Tokyo and the book of limericks from Limmerick meets my eyes meets Japanese poetry society to form the Limmerku 17 syllable – 2a-2b-1a form as I give it a try:

Hold me
I shall not flee
I’ll stay with you
Forever true
Loving thee

Oh, well, it was worth a try at least

AFTER MEETING HISTORIAN RIBARD O’DWYER & LISTENING TO TOO MUCH CHUMBAWUMBA TOWARDS KENMARE, CO. KERRY

*flickering pictures hypnotise we spend our
lives watching other’s lives too much
watching to realize that this is a smoke
screen and this is why people die*
- More Whitewashing

*hunger put the sparkle back in television*

as the sudan crisis is posted across bus stations in Galway and you can help too just send a case of Dr. pib and burger king certificates to their address and all will be alright close your eyes don’t pay it any attention just watch as her lips swallow you swallow you in or close your eyes as the palm oil is saturating your hair just go shopping or take a drive using the oil we’re having others fight so hard for the news will tell us when it’s all over and it’s all over just close your eyes and follow me into the tele just follow me into tv land where we’ll give you a bucket and mop and you too can help clean up all those aesthetically unpleasant bodies

PASSING THE VIEW ON RING OF KERRY

The islands sot across the sea line horizon passing *the most famous view in Ireland* gentle grey washing upon savaged shores as men in black rubber penetrate her briny deep searching for relics of past conquerors the rolling thighs snugging the sky hint at the cascading waters ravaged lands and hungry grazing wooly lovers the falls part your lips mossy crags and sloping rocks both carved marked owned and those natural as the day you first parted your legs to meet the heavens

HAVING SEEN THE OGHAM STONES OF DUNLOE

Strange more than slightly strange that the Ogham stones of Dunloe were just at the side of the road and not even at a wide spot in the road up to a set of steps to a graveled railed area enclosed no cultural notes no explanation no security and an old (peace) symbol on one of them as if some force decided that I wasn’t to walk too far and transported them for me only to move them back home this evening… the carvings were distinct solid reminders of something perhaps a past of stone words of warning or dedications to the gods… I’m not sure. I’ll have to cross reference it later.

1 July 1998
Tobar Bridge, Kildare 9:15 AM

30 birds crows wings black against the pale grey sky flew away as we approached in our burgundy automobile passing 2 oaks large & majestic as we came upon the well having passed its entrance twice (the sign had been knocked over, lying in the grass and brambles) / there is a bridge crossing a running stream and at its other side a donations stop a placard declaring wells are holy places and a sign announcing the place * to say your prayers at each station around are pines alder birch but the only oak are the tree behind wooden bars and placards announcing scout troupes community groups and a man now dead in whose name all are to pray. The water filters from well & stream through rock basins past a life size effigy of the saint bearing her church in the palm of her hand down towards the well past 5? (will count when I get the photos back) stones on stones to the well with kneeling area rock low wall cross placed in 1952 and next to it a pine where ribbons have been tied rags a rosary a medal a hospital bracelet and a brigid’s cross made of crow feathers fine lovely flowers and immaculately trimmed grass a kneeling area back by the river stream and as I looked into the well a voice did speak that it was not right to fill from the well that we should look on to moving on not being stagnant corrupted by pure and running and beginning anew I weave my steps round the stones back to the steps & water * the covering arch * the statue with the cross beneath it and whisper to myself of the new found faith not here but away and fill the bottle giving thanks. Finish photographing, take some photos for dad… cross back over the stream to the lovely but sad place into the car and as we drive away an old woman on a bike is heading towards the well the crows are overhead & we head back into town the smell of fresh dew no longer on my lips as it had been & CelticLovers playing on the CD player

(Will return to later on pages down as day pass parents are fickle creatures and time persuades otherwise…)

7 May 1998
Better Late Than Never – On Grianan of Aileach and Beltany Stone Circle 8 Days After We Visted Them

Grianan of Aileach stone circular fort situated on 5 ½ acres of land land united divided and conquered was once occupied by the royal house royal louse Ui Neill, of which Eoghan founded a dynast of High Kings of Eire that lasted 500 years terraced steps 3 concentric rings and inside the walls hiding places crawling spaces for escape in this place of the sun ‘grian’ in modern gaelic Grannos the male sun diety godde and down a path lined on all sides by thick gatherings of heather dry in the late spring *to see it bloom would be glorious* was a well spring metal cross banged in above it hammered in as an afterthought and dedicated to St. Patrick for it is said that he baptized Eoghan at that well between the earthwork defenses that now has cigarette butts and a film atop it your flag stones pushed aside disgarded yet lush greens grow about your moist motherly mouth your sacred sacramental wine but this too in time will may be forgotten by the people those who pave over my flesh with a cement casket who dig up my nipples as ore smelt me melt me for tin cans and cash crops and like me Griannan o Aileach was destroyed torn down by Brian king of Munster in 1101 in revenge for the uiNeill destruction of Kincora and only 100 years or so ago was she the stone womb devoid of tombs rebuilt to its lovely loneliness atop the mountain gazing down on derry and all gazing up to be seen

***
Earth my body
Water my blood
Air my breath
And Fire my spirit
- Wiccan chant to the elements
***
Motioning a prayer with the spirit between her lips another prayer another calling to the earth here as the sage slips between her fingers onto the soil grass inside the stone circle before we run off to catch the McGinley bus back to Oideas Gael her eyes wet with the wind that flows through long ruah locks tied back with a blue scarf silver strands interwoven the prayer done she hikes up her skirt friends at her side and heads down the hill
*has everyone taken their photographs good one two three* and off they run into the circle four boys and two girls suddenly in a race against time space age 12 once more move faster their feet slipping on cloud broken rain remnants that were pouring down as we had approached the site sad but expectant a twenty minute refuge from the road trodding the ancient weeds beneath adidas and doc martins and there they go off on the ancient race ancient traces in a standing circle the rest of us standing around laughing photographing betting who would get there first and looking at these ancient stabs there is a question comment in the minds of all save the fast footed lads and ladies… who was here first so long ago who were they what were they like what races did they run so many millennium ago horse hooves clopping along ancient cobblestones and across theses same pathways and this plateau Beltany Hill that looks out on a fantastic view view of a world ancient unknown and now merely to imagine oak ash groves that might that grew below holy woods groves grounded above this sacred ground stone circle

At it center stone surrounded the winds whispered lightly gutly the music man through the weeds deeds of our day I closed my eyes bent down in veneration and imagination to feel those who had come before me in the green dew tears at my touch *hush* a lit fire mountain night dancing singing *hush* reeds rustling far away flowers hidden yellow against these grass greens old granite upstanding citizen slabs *hush* a bird chirping clouds passing over head a cat cutting through the undergrowth at the other side of the clearing hearing the noises we as humans made *hush* my hair weaving with the spirit abounding and the moisture fills my eyes too as if dew rain clouds had hit me loved me washed me as well *hush* and now thank you north forms of earth soil between the tracks of my boot bare toes solid finger tips east air that rides me in spirit mist clouds comfort caresser love of the willow ashen oak to bring them to life south fire that lights my soul that was lit here so long ago that will be burned here again some summer night in your honor west the waters waves washing over us gentle rain giving life and loving the world loving me a pause a single breath open my eyes time to walk on

The bus calls rolling away on muddy field streets goodbye to the hard painted *stone circle* sign the green corridor the up and over entrance yet the circle calling back puts sheep in the way to slow our leaving come back come back dance in me pray in me live here love me know me and be mine you were here such a short time in my ancient place and I have been lonely make my existence meaningful again not to be a tourist trap but a venerated location once more don’t go come back come back but with our back turned to her the sheep are cleared from the road and we ride home to fill our stomachs and forget the magic forget her cries but I listened and every fiber aches to return to her my lost lover to feel her beneath me again to lay with her run her hair through my solemn fingers kiss her gently and return to her make her whole once more

23 April 1998
Kitchen @ Oideas Gael Droms after Anam Cara Seminar

“SPIRITUALITY IS A STRANGE THING”
- Judy Frank

To move… the spirit itself constantly on the move me across the sea to a celtic non-celtic Christian spirituality beyond the politics of the church where jesus is there to teach the message of an ancient tradition love love … namaste welcome oh how I cherish accept and adore the spirit of god within you the crack you tell fresh as the milk on old corkey’s table the sad alcoholic who would be buried ina a pauper’s pit before everyone realized that he never got home home on the range the man urinating on the wall carpeting in county sligo the day of the wedding “move over, I get to punch ‘im, he’s my brother” while the next such celebration had the best musicians cordial men and women with waves caresses of compassion… is it possible to identify with a religion any religion that sends it’s energy not into the self or down to that earth that sustains us that supports a through nurturing sun son light of lugh does not anymore appreciate or seem to understand the spirit of it’s original teachings that up until it was taken out quoted the catechism 2.2.6.6 on the state’s right to kill those who have done the most grievous crimes oh hands off cain the sinner already bearing the mark we have given him by placing him her they the divine into a situation that they feel can only be escaped accepted in with violence but is the divine a higher being persay must jesus yalweh Krishna know my every thought be a perfect being or does he make mistakes can he learn and grow along my path does she become a personal embodiment of all I seek to understand accept I would that I could find my own spiritual beliefs where –balance- is the key not right wing left wing feminist feminazi patriarchy matriarchy but where the inner chord of the soul rings true where I can feel free in my heart to wear both my St. Christopher’s metal and my goddess fertility pendant and feel like they in balance with each other with a possibility being to stay within ‘the church’ (as judy tries to do) or within ‘the covens’ (as adelle seems happy to try to do) if and when they are willing to accept my blending blurring knotting swirling together of the dualities knowing that all sides all parts can be reflected within me for within me is a form of the entire cosmos as can be seen in the night visions of survival quotient the sacred heart within each of us to the world to the sun to cosmos universe cosmos light pure light into through beyond human life reborn in the form of an anointed one the Christ of our rebirth renewal each more precious than the last…. The ancient celt who were you did you hoist heads on staffs for all to see the embodiment of hunter gatherer cain tribes or were you adam herdsman agricultural vegetarian why how did the saints come to you the early missionaries to search for a good conversation or on a quest to convert those in the farthest reaches bowels hollows of the earth did you find the celt find an inner understanding of balance in the Triunal godhead father-son-holy spirit along side your triple goddess maiden-mother-crone three in three so mote it be or did the word of this wise man from Jerusalem inspire more than a reformation of the horned one did you the celt put the sun behind the cross or was there also a chance it was the moon mary standing beside behind her son on his death tools comforting and supporting as in life so as in death

18 April 1998
Fado, fado

Fado, fado another day in Paris the city of lights of love burning in the evening the night before having had a sit down meal of cheese pizza and Perrier in a grimy French pub/café people playing pool in the front room alone after a day of the Louver courtyard falling in love with stone granite faces breasts sighs thighs the color of golden light tracing each lamp post darkened copper and polished or but now one day later images of Rodin dancing in my mind “the Secret” an ultimate image of passion the intimate touch of two right hands formed in marble speak to me of fingers hands meet as two pilgrim lips meet my Shakespearean love song eulogy modern art of delunay Edward munch the cry the depression the death of marat tell me de sade of how marat was killed the dagger in her hard and the inmates crying wailing about the play production mary with her unborn child violent blood reds rich ruah red my words for the color in our veins in my hair in the tears of the vampires that look from outside our precious precocious scenes post nationalist post modern post post modern post me a letter from paris the next day before I visit the Louver inside to have my panic attack in 14th century Italy oh mona lisa why do you distract so many with a wry smile seen on the statuary of ancient Mesopotamia the smile I’ve seen on my own face before so many times before this day the last day of Mars the last day to March on march forth black adder a snake in the mind of the BBC enter the auxiliary characters myself and thousands of tourists to a play that has been in production 1000 years in the making an eternity in the wings enter center stage to the scene a wide expanse of open pavement four thousand tourists gathered outside the church of myth mystery novels of the hunchback and esmerelda covered now with the scaffolds iron prison of reconstruction marble face lift been waiting to see the eyes the very eyes of Notre Dame for so many years and now upon seeing it those eyes are veiled try again in a few more years just a few more years not so many given the cathedral’s lifetime I goth street punk spiked hair Carolina boots no thoughts of the caroline left behind as the floral print crème head scarf is thrown on head down and back to pay my respect the sign before I enter proclaiming *please be quiet* no hats* please remove your hats* and 100 frat boys from the states go inside their caps proclaiming red skins and fighting irish my camera bag and coat thrown back onto my right shoulder crossing myself in an old symbol long before crypts bloods the prayers used over the crypts of old and inside lines follow this way miss until I look up jaw dropping as each panel of light colored by the rose window enters my view pathways of st. john mother mary full of grace no need for that precious parking space giant paintings and carved statuary everywhere a holy place so infinitely glamorous and sacred to the catholic mind with Japanese Italian French American tourist one by one with flash photography video camcorder watch the people praying aren’t they funny so slowly I made my way make my way to joan of arc forgiven by the church and proclaimed a saint after having been burned at the stake as a harlot witch flames crisping frying my skin flesh as one knee at a tie drops onto the red old padded cushion and arms rest upon old oak before the closest thing I could find to an independent woman in the catholic church in a positive light and with eyes pressed shut I pray for strength on my journey pray not to hit the man from Taiwan who’s using flash flash Gordon photography pray for safety pray for a discovery in my relationships pray eyes tight for direction in my religious life and opening my eyes drop fancs into the metal box as I light a candle say thanks to joan and my our fathers in a slow English clear under my breath looking up to see so many tourists tourists pointing at angels colored lights gold jesus gold mary gold ancient oak stained polished wood everywhere listening as songs are sang in old latin *did you get a photo of that* did they photograph capture on film my prayers to a god who listens only on occasion and I hold myself back from decking screaming at the old asian woman with the video camera whos trying to zoom in on the people praying waiting for evening mass to be said but slowly I decide instead to join those waiting for mass tears in my eyes w/ the beauty of the cathedral Notre Dame Notre Dame the night lady how right they never named you for looking out stained glass I am reminded of my theory on light that each religion is purple Catholicism red Buddhism yellow green wicca but through each pane pain of glass faith all you are truly looking at is the light of the sun above light the language colors of love